


Put a Gun to My Head, Hold My Hand in Yours

by Books_and_Cats_and_Coffee



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Addictions, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Island, Depression, Dismemberment, Domestic Violence, Drugs, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicidal actions, Triggers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 23:12:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17272946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Books_and_Cats_and_Coffee/pseuds/Books_and_Cats_and_Coffee
Summary: Quentin Lance jumped on the case as soon as the news of it got out. Oliver Queen was a close friend to his daughter, the son of one of the wealthiest men in the city a man Quentin himself had little respect for. But it seems Lance is the only one willing to give the case of the supposed runaway a closer look, everyone else accepting his family's excuse for the boy's disappearance. Why wouldn't they? However, the more Lance learns, the more he begins to realize that the situation was darker, more dangerous than even he could have guessed.Meanwhile, Oliver struggles to survive, held hostage in a deadly ploy. But the more time goes by, the more he thinks, he hopes, that somehow, his captor will make a decision contrary to his orders.





	1. Persuasion By Fear

**_Author's Note_ **

_This fanfiction contains a lot of sensitive and mature topics including but not limited to; depression, suicidal tendencies and nature, homophobia, canon-typical violence, mental illness, drugs and drug addiction, alcohol, and alcoholism, child abuse, etc. Underage is also included as an archive warning, however, while one character is still under the legal age 18 (where there are typically no longer any restrictions), he is still above the typical age of consent 16-17._

_I didn’t initially plan for it to be such a serious story, however, a lot of my personal thoughts, feelings and many real-life issues ended up as parts of the plot. The tags include warnings, of course, and there is a solid reason for the explicit rating. However, it definitely took a much darker path than I had anticipated and due to the alternate, no vigilante plotline, this story definitely swayed to a different aesthetic. I am aware that several of my works do tend to at least mention a pretty serious topic, but as this warning would seem to suggest, those topics will be a major part of the plot and if you have any discomfort in reading them, it is suggested you don’t continue._

* * *

 

**Chapter One**

The insistent rumbling of noise lured him into consciousness. His eyelids felt like lead, his head throbbed dully every time his body was jostled. He tried to move, but he couldn’t shift his arms. Slowly, reality leaked in. Something warm but soft was pressed over his mouth, restricting his breathing and making it impossible for him to make a single noise. His wrists and ankles were tied together, that was what was keeping him still. The palms of his hands stung.

His surroundings were pitch black, but the noise was constant. Unable to move, trapped in a small, tight world, his bewildered mind tried to piece together the fragmented memories floating around his aching skull.

_December 12 th 2:06 AM_

_The club was packed full of partiers, their bodies moving to the beat of the music that seemed to pulse through the bones of the building itself. Multicolored lights flashed around the dim, smoky interior. It was loud and packed, full of people trying to unwind and get away from their lives._

_That was Oliver’s maxim of the night, although he was not following it that well.  Had Tommy not been so insistent, he wouldn’t even be here, he’d be home, hidden upstairs. But as it was, he and Tommy had tricked their way into the club, courtesy of a couple fake I.D.s, and had been going hard ever since. It provided a nighttime worth of distraction from his family and promised a hangover so bad he would regret it all the next morning._

_The effects of the several drinks he had already downed were beginning to kick in, the edges of Oliver’s vision were blurred and there was a strange tingling in the back of his skull. Jarred on all sides, Oliver, looked over towards the bar to see Tommy leaning on the surface talking to a blonde who was smiling and blushing madly. This was Tommy’s element, his ‘natural habitat’ and Oliver knew he was excelling, as always._

_As for himself, he didn’t feel in the mood to go and try sweet talking some half-drunk girl. Just that morning, he had gotten into a fight with his father over a topic that Oliver regretted ever bringing up. Absentmindedly, he reached up to press at the bruise over his left eye masterfully hidden with foundation and concealer borrowed from his best friend Laurel. He was fairly sure she hadn’t believed his 'I walked into a door' excuse._

_The memory of the argument still bothered him, however, and Oliver found it hard to shake away the lingering feelings to try to get back into the mood of the room around him. Someone bumped into him as they moved past, and instinctively, Oliver turned towards the person to be met with a dazzling smile and bright green eyes alight with a private amusement._

_“Excuse me,” the words were spoken in a wonderfully light way as the man brushed by with a teasing wink and smile. “You hanging alone?” Oliver quickly snapped himself out of any trance he was threatening to fall into._ Don’t stare. C’mon, Ollie.

_“With a friend,” he made a vague gesture towards where Tommy still stood at the bar bar. The other cast a glance in the direction he waved to._

_“Well that leaves me quite a few options to pick through,” he commented jokingly. Oliver felt a smile curling the corners of his mouth at the easy nature. “But in the meantime, you just standing around without a drink is criminal. Let me get you something.”_

_“You don’t have to do that,” at first, Oliver thought maybe the other hadn’t heard him as he had just turned away. The blonde looked back toward him again, walking backward a few steps._

_“I want to, just stay here for a sec,” he moved through people, headed towards the bar, and Oliver stood still, still able to see him winding his way through small clusters. His head was swimming at the quickness of it all, and it took him a moment before he realized Tommy was shouting his name._

_“Ollie!” He glanced in his friend’s direction, seeing Tommy paused with a drink still slightly raised. “You good?” he shouted. Oliver flashed him a thumbs up and Tommy responding with pointing to his left, mouthing something Oliver couldn’t catch. He merely grinned and waved. It seemed as though that was an acceptable response because, in a moment, Tommy was gone into the crowd. Oliver shook his head, seeing the blonde from earlier out of the corner of his eye, bearing two drinks._

_“Glad to see you’re still here,” he said above the noise, holding out both drinks. Oliver took one._

_“It wasn’t an offer I wanted to turn down,” he returned, then added. “Thanks.” The other waved away his gratitude, holding out his now free hand._

_“I’m Brian, by the way.” Oliver took the hand._

_“Oliver,” he replied, having to shout as a burst of excited yells rose from the group next to them. He winced, pointing up. “There are tables up there, it might be a little quieter.”_

_“Genius idea,” Brian agreed, and the two of them made their way to the stairs together. A moment later, they were upstairs. The noise was still substantial, but at least now, they were able to talk without yelling. Brian pointed down. “Okay, I’ll admit that was getting crazy, even for me.” Oliver laughed, taking a drink._

_“Yeah, this place is packed,” he said. He took a moment to study the other. His blonde hair was styled in a fringe cut that complimented his rectangle shaped face, graced with those bright green eyes and perfect cheekbones. He was a little taller than Oliver, and it was difficult to guess exactly how old the man was. It seemed impossible he was any older than twenty-two, at most. He didn’t realize he had been staring for quite some time until the other coughed and Oliver looked down quickly. “So, are you a regular around here?” he asked, taking another quick drink._

_“I stop by when I can, university keeps me busy, what about you?” Brian said the first with a small shrug._

_“It depends,” Oliver said, trying to evade an exact answer. Brian seemed to pick up on it but surprisingly didn’t ask more._

_“You should have seen the guy at the bar,” he said instead. “It was insane. There was a bouncer who walked over right when I got there to order and demanded to see ID. I thought he was going to throw me out for just existing.” Oliver leaned forward, pretending to study Brian’s face._

_“Well,” he said, with an intentionally light tone. “I can see where his doubt was coming from.” The other laughed earnestly, head bowing._

_“It’s been said I have a baby face,” he replied easily. “Guess I’m not one to argue. You know, when my family ate out, restaurants kept giving me the kids menu until I was seventeen. And that’s a fact.” It was Oliver’s time to chuckle, looking down at the table and taking a drink instead of making eye contact. Brian tipped his head, studying Oliver’s face with a suddenly serious expression._

_“You’ve got something here,” his thumb brushed against his own cheekbone and Oliver’s insides clenched, knowing immediately that the dark mark was showing even through the makeup. “Is that a bruise? It looks a little nasty.”_

_“Accident,” Oliver said dismissively. “My friend and I were playing around and he misjudged the, um, distance.”_ Yeah, like that’s believable. _He dearly wished they could move onto another topic, there was an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach now, and Oliver subtly moved his drink, not feeling up to another sip. Brian had barely touched his own drink, almost as though he had forgotten about it._

_“Gotta love the noise,” Brian commented, changing the topic abruptly. The music had shifted just before he spoke. Oliver grimaced in response. His stomach twisted suddenly and he winced, fighting down nausea that was beginning to rise. “You good?” Brian asked, seeming genuinely concerned._

_“Just a little much,” Oliver said, making a vague gesture at the space around them. “Probably drank too much.” The nausea hit him again, this time stronger, and he stood. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go. Thanks for the drink.”_

_“Yeah, sure, I get it,” Brian reached into his pocket, pulling out a marker. “But real quick, can I see your hand?” Confused, Oliver reached out his right hand, letting the other hold onto it, turning his arm upright and scribbling several digits onto Oliver’s skin. He looked down at it, somewhat surprised. “If you ever feel up for it, or you know, just want to talk, give me a call, I could always use a break from study.”_

_“Yeah, thanks,” Oliver replied, still taken aback._ Why would you do that? What about me do you _like_? _A spell of dizziness crashed over him abruptly, however, and Oliver was forced to duck away from the table, fumbling through the crowd and almost running down the stairs. He exploded out a back door into the dark alley beyond. The door clanged shut behind him and immediately, he was assaulted by the cold. Stumbling down the steps to the ground, Oliver pressed a hand against his skull, fighting back the rising sickness._

_He heard the sharp clang of a door closing and turned to see who had come out. Maybe it was simply instinct, but Oliver’s adrenaline picked up immediately as he watched the man step down the cast iron stairs and walk casually towards him._

_There was just something about him that seemed wrong, maybe it was the burning intensity of his gaze or the fact he was obviously sober._ A bouncer. _Oliver told himself, but that didn’t seem right. The man was solidly built with broad shoulders and naturally tan skin. His dark eyes were fixated on Oliver, giving the boy the uncomfortable feeling of being hunted. He stumbled back several steps before forcing his legs to run. They felt like jelly, his entire body was shaking and Oliver struggling to make it a few steps, the world was spinning around him._

_He risked a glance behind him, the man was scarcely a couple feet behind, and Oliver paid dearly for his moment of distraction. He tripped over a metal trashcan, plummeting to the ground. He threw out both hands to catch himself, feeling the cement shred through the skin on his palms. Turning over, Oliver saw the man hadn’t stopped. He drew level with Oliver and frantically, the boy kicked at his legs. The world seemed darker, black spots appearing in his vision._

_The man easily evaded the kick, standing just out of reach of Oliver. Now that he had fallen, the boy didn’t think he could get up again, his body felt weak, and he was struggling to just stay conscious. The man stood over him, seeming to ignore Oliver’s garbled mixture of threats and pleas. He reached up to his ear, pressed a hand against it and speaking. His voice sounded distant and far off._

_“Target collected.”_

He had been kidnapped. The thought brought a sudden crash of fear and panic. It was logical to assume he was currently trapped in the trunk of a car, hands, and ankles bound together. It was tight, the space seeming to squash him, the air far too warm and Oliver struggled to breathe. He dragged in air through the rough gag, his chest heaving with the lack of oxygen. His face felt unbearable hot, he felt as though he were suffocating. _I need to get out_. He lashed out wildly with his limbs, his feet thumped into something solid and he struggled desperately, small gasps escaping his shuddering body.

It felt like hours stretched by as he fought to free himself, the ties bit into his wrists, hot tears stung against his skin, as though they were burning the surface of his face. But there was no response to his panic. He knew the feeling when abandonment, loneliness, and mortification at himself all mixed together to make one shitty mess.

It was exhaustion that finally claimed control of him. That finally forced him to take slower breaths, his body shuddering. He lay limply, head throbbing so painfully he couldn’t think. He didn’t know how long it was before he dropped off into sleep once again.

**OoOoO**

The pain was excruciating. It was one of the worst headaches he had ever felt. Blearily, Oliver cracked open his eyelids, muffling a groan when light assaulted him. His bed felt too hard. He tried to roll over and bury his face in the pillow underneath his head, but something clacked against his wrist, pulling him back. There was no more constant noise, instead, it was only silence, and his confusion made him struggle to make sense of the situation. He forced open his eyes, immediately assaulted by daylight streaming through the curtain-less window. His wrist was zip-cuffed to the wall and he was lying on a hard, uncomfortable cot.

The room he was in was militant and practical, wooden walls, one window, no carpets. Just the cot. The entire space was smaller than the size of Oliver’s closet back home with a tilted ceiling that suggested this were some sort of attic. A wooden door was closed across from him, but Oliver knew there was no way he’d make it there. He looked down at one of his hands, the skin was cut and irritated from when he had fallen to the cement.

The noise of a lock unlatching came from the door, and Oliver sat up a little straighter, pushing himself into the wall as the door opened and the man who had followed him into the alleyway came in. He approached the cot, and Oliver drew his legs up, trying to shrink even further back away from his captor. But his movement was hampered and Oliver was soon trapped against the wall. The man stepped up next to the caught, reaching out with a knife to cut through the zip ties, allowing Oliver’s hand to drop to his side. The boy cradled it near his chest, staring up at the stranger without another movement. He could feel his heart thudding in his throat.

“Come on,” it was an order, spoken briskly and offering no room for argument. Oliver stared up at the man, his fear and confusion working together to freeze him in place. The words sounded weird, as though his ears were not used to hearing noise. His brain felt muddled, it was hard to connect his surroundings. When he didn’t respond, the man reached out. Oliver flinched away from his hold, but his hand still settled on Oliver’s bicep and hauled him upright as though he barely weighed a thing.

A wave of stubbornness rose inside of Oliver at the rough treatment, and instead of allowing himself to go with the man, he slammed his foot into the inside of his calf, dropping all his weight to the floor. The man wasn’t even moved by the kick. He merely let go, allowing the boy to drop to the floor. Oliver crossed his arms tightly, trying to pass off the lack of dignity contained in the whole situation.

“What’s going on?” his voice felt funny. “Why am I here?” The man looked down at him, expression unimpressed. _If I look half as bad as I feel there’s nothing to be impressed about._

“Get up,” there was a warning in the man’s tone, and it sounded as though he didn’t expect any argument.

“Fuck you.” The man exhaled slowly, irritation obvious in his features before he crouched down, putting them on more or less the same level.

“Don’t make this more difficult on yourself, kid,” the nickname made irritation surge through Oliver. He wasn’t a _kid_. But he didn’t get a chance to debate that point. “My job isn’t to hurt you, if you don’t act out, I won’t have to.” Anger, unreasonable anger flared up inside Oliver at the threat. He glared all of it at the stranger.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on!” He hissed. The man met his glare evenly.

“Your father made a poor choice and aligned himself with the wrong people,” he replied. His tone was far too casual for the words he was speaking. “You’re here to persuade him to make the right decision.” Nervousness chewed at his anger.

“What do you mean?” But the man was done talking, and hauled Oliver to his feet. He stumbled upward, awkwardly forcing his legs underneath him. His legs felt shaky and weak. The man didn’t give him much time to recover, however, pushing him forward and marching Oliver through the door into the hallway.

It had the same rough wooden walls as the room they had left. Maybe this was some sort of cabin. Oliver’s ‘room’ was at the top of a few stairs at the very end of the space. He tried to look around as they moved but the man shoved him quickly through the closest doorway. This was a bathroom, all wood, rustic, small and simple. Once they were inside, the man let Oliver go, stepping away as if to leave the room.

“Clean yourself up, there’s clean clothes by the sink.” But once again, Oliver wasn’t inclined to take orders. Legs still shaky, he didn’t move, even when the man took a step towards him. Instead, he simply sat down again. “I already told you, kid, this is going to be a lot easier for you if you simply comply.”

“I’m not a kid,” Oliver snapped back, his physical position, sitting, lodged in a corner of the bathroom undoubtedly did not help his argument. “And I’m not just doing whatever the hell you say! I still have no idea what’s going on!” His voice rose, fringed by the mess of confused anger and knowing fear that battled for dominance inside of him.

“You don’t need to know who am I,” the man replied shortly.

“Then where are we?” Oliver demanded.

“Not in Starling,” he said. “And not near it. You have nothing to be afraid of unless you make things difficult.” Oliver was getting tired of hearing that particular threat over and over. “You will only be here as long as it takes for your father to change his mind.”

“And what if he doesn’t?” Oliver asked brazenly, more determined to keep asking questions now than actually looking for an answer. The man paused briefly and Oliver felt a sudden worm of doubt. “Are you going to kill me?” the question had a lot less of the previous bravado than the others, the realism of the situation crashing down onto him. The man’s expression didn’t hold even a trace of apology or regret.

“If he refuses to comply, it will endanger the lives of many. He will be aware of the consequences of any such refusal.” Oliver couldn’t think of any other questions. Robert Queen was doing something illegal, and something it sounded as though he had been caught up in for a while and quietly, Oliver knew that any threat on his life would hold very little sway over his father. “Shower.” The man’s voice snapped him back to reality.

“If I’m going to die, what’s the point?” Oliver muttered. The man sighed again, the sound full of unspoken irritation at his position.

“There’s no certainty of that, kid,” he said. “Don’t give up on life yet.” Slowly, Oliver stood, most of his weight still pressed against the wall. The man seemed to guess he was moving to what he had said, as he stepped back, partly turning to go towards the door. Oliver didn’t wait for him to fully turn his back before he bolted, lunging towards the door.

Seeming to sense the movement, the man tripped him halfway there, effortlessly avoiding Oliver’s wild punch and snaring the boy easily, holding him by both arms and unceremoniously shoving him into the small corner shower flicking the water on full blast before the glass door shut abruptly. Oliver gasped at the frigid temperature, instinct urging him to pressed himself to the wall and battle with the door, trying to free himself. In the small interior, there was no way to completely escape the stream of water, and within a few seconds, Oliver’s clothes were soaked through and he was freezing. He reached forward to try to shut off the water, but the man opened the door partway and hit his hands away, drawing another curse from Oliver.

“Just wash yourself, kid, this’ll go faster the sooner you stop being an idiot,” the man’s tone had a finality to it, and Oliver knew he wasn’t going to win this particular argument. He stripped off his sodden clothes, shoving them to the side of the shower and snatching the unopened bar of soap off of the ledge, stripping off the wrapping and hurriedly rubbing it around. By the time he had finished, even though he moved as quickly as possible, he was shivering furiously and all he could think about was getting out of the water.

This time, the man allowed him to shut off the shower and step out. Oliver snatched the nearest towel, the cloth was not particularly warm, but it brought some relief, along with concealment, and Oliver held on to it tightly.

“And you going to leave now?” he asked. The man looked at him steadily for a moment before turning, leaving the room. “If you’re not out within five minutes I’ll come back in.” He called over his shoulder. Oliver let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, relieved to be alone again. He rubbed at his skin, trying to get some warmth back into his body.

There was a clean stack of clothes by the sink, as the man had said. And Oliver pulled them on, trying not to think much about it. They were close enough to his size to fit well, and the simple sweatpants, t-shirt and sweatshirt were warm compared to what seemed to be the impossibly cold temperature. In Starling, the usual lows for this time of year didn’t exceed 35 degrees Fahrenheit, but here, it was much, much colder. There were no socks or shoes, and Oliver realized that such a simple thing would prevent him from going very far should he manage to somehow get out. There was nothing in the bathroom that could actually help him escape, and instead, Oliver opened the toothbrush and used the tube of paste, going through the simple, familiar regimen that seemed so wrongly out of place.

He opened the door slowly, not surprised to see the man standing outside, casually leaning against the wall. As he stepped out, the stranger straightened. Oliver flinched away from his hold, and instead, starting walking back towards the room they had left. Clearly, that was the right choice, as the man’s hand dropped back down by his side and he simply walked slightly behind Oliver, making sure he went into the small space.

When inside, Oliver turned to watch the door close unceremoniously before he dropped onto the cot. He was still cold, the warm clothes did very little to help that and he pulled the blanket over him. He was hungry, as well, but was loath to ask the man for anything. He wondered distantly what time it was, or even, what day it was, he had no way to keep track. At some point, he drifted off to sleep, curled into a tight ball, and huddled under the single blanket.

**OoOoO**

_Oliver, call home. Your mother and I are not amused._

_Ollie, it’s Laurel. Where are you? Everyone’s worried._

_Hey man, your family’s just about spitting fire. I think you should check in._

_Ollie, Laurel again, this isn’t funny. I know you might be avoiding your father, but you need to call someone back._

_Oliver, it’s your mother, where are you?_

_Ollie, your dad’s really worried. Is something wrong?_

The messages became more and more frantic, a little under twenty-four hours later, Tommy Merlyn found his best friend’s phone in the dumpster behind the club  _Hysteria._  Robert Queen called the police.

 

 


	2. If I Run, Could I Escape?

This time, it was the sound of the door that brought Oliver out of his sleep. Blinking away drowsiness, he sat up, confusion momentarily clotting his mind as he looked around the unfamiliar room. His memories came back quickly, however, and Oliver looked towards the door as the man entered carrying…Oliver blinked in surprise. He was carrying a bowl of what looked like oatmeal and a plastic bottle of water. A moment later, the boy berated himself for his surprise. _Of course, they’re going to give you food. Don’t be dumb, Ollie._ Uncertainty, he sat up a little straighter as the man neared him, pausing a couple feet away and holding out both items.

Cautiously, Oliver took them, bringing the warm bowl to his body as he crossed his legs underneath him. He stirred the mixture. As much as his stomach ached with hunger, residues of doubts still remained. It smelled amazing, a tribute to how hungry he truly was. Oliver had no idea when he had last eaten. It felt like weeks. He glanced up at the man.

“How do I know it isn’t poisoned?” Oliver asked.

“Do you really think I need a bowl of oatmeal and poison to knock you off, kid?” When he put it that way, the question sounded dumb. Oliver shifted uncomfortably. _No, of course not._

“Maybe you put some other type of drug in it.” He said, stubbornly holding onto his claim. The man regarded him.

“Do you really think I need drugs to do _anything_ to you?” he asked. Oliver opened his mouth, but couldn’t form a reply. The thought wasn’t comforting, but it was definitely factual. Instead of continuing the discussion, Oliver tucked the spoon into the oatmeal, starting to eat. As bland as it was, it tasted amazing, and he had to force himself to not bolt it all down. The man stood, arms crossed, waiting for him to finish. It was a little strange, having someone stare at him while he ate, but Oliver tried his best to ignore his captor, focusing on the food and water. When he finished, the man took both, and Oliver curled in on himself again, not feeling up to attempt any conversation. The man left, and Oliver stared out the small, barred window. He had no idea what time it was, or even, what day. Had he been missing long?

He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, tucking his bare feet underneath him and huddling away from the ever-present cold. It seemed inescapable, no matter how much Oliver folded in on himself, he could feel the cold pressing against him.

Bright sunlight shone through the glass of the window, and with nothing better to do, Oliver stood, blanket still draped around him and walked over to the window. He looked outside, the sun reflected off the white snow, almost blinding, and he squinted against the glare. The dark shape of trees broke off his view just a couple yards from the building. Oliver could see no sign of other people or buildings. The bars were set on the inside of the glass, and Oliver tinkered with them for several minutes, pulling, pushing, and doing whatever else he thought might loosen them.

Nothing worked, and eventually, Oliver drifted back to the cot, sitting down.

A few minutes later, he was up, circling the room. He did a few pushups, lay on the floor, then did a few more until his arms gave out and he flopped to the wooden floor. He itched with the need to move or do something, he couldn’t keep sitting around. Rolling onto his back, Oliver stared up at the ceiling. He lifted his hands to study them, his palms were already mostly healed, and the movements he had done hadn’t disrupted the skin again. As he stared at them, his eyes fell to the black smudge just visible, peeking over the edge of the sweatshirt. Oliver pulled back the sleeve, reading the smudged numbers written on his skin, numbers he had previously forgotten about.

_221 1128_

It would be a 206 area code, at least, Oliver reasoned, or else Brian would have included the first three digits. He read and reread the number. Would he ever actually use it? He let his arm drop back down to the floor with a small _thud._

How long _had_ it been?

**OoOoO**

“This is your fault,” Moira Queen watched at her husband who paced around the sitting room. She stood by the window, strands of hair whisking across her face. Her expression was somewhere between disgust and fury. It had been three days since Oliver had not returned home. Robert paused his pacing, gaze swinging to her.

“My fault?!” He repeated incredulously.

“If you had been any sort of father to him, he wouldn’t have run!” Moira replied, refusing to be deterred.

“And maybe the same could be said if you had actually tried to be around,” Robert snapped back. “I have a business to run, I couldn’t take care of any kids and we had this discussion before! There’s a purpose for schools.”

“I have been helping your business’s public image for years,” Moira spat. “I have other focuses too, but at least I seem understand the responsibilities of having children. You should have done something other than give him reason to avoid and be afraid of you.” One of her hands went to her hip as she faced him. “You seem to have difficulty remembering that’s your _son_ , you fathered that child, and you should have been the one to find a way to fix the problems he’s been having. Now, he’s run off and we have no way of knowing where or when he’s going to suddenly appear. That could be devastating for the image of the company you care so much about.”

“If you’re not willing to put any effort into raising one child, why were you so quick to have another?”

“Oh, shut up,” Moira snapped.

“Why? I guess by your logic Thea shouldn’t be any of my concern, after all I didn’t father her.” Robert replied. Momentarily, Moira was taken aback, and didn’t have any response.

“We’re not talking about Thea,” she said finally. “And don’t act like you’re oh so innocent in that matter.” Robert turned away, starting up his pacing again.

“Oliver wouldn’t have run far,” he said sharply. “He’ll show up soon enough, or be found.”

“You better hope so,” Moira snapped, and left the room.

**OoOoO**

Quentin Lance had jumped on the case as soon as he had heard of it. He might not know the kid well, but Oliver and Laurel were good friends, and he had picked up on his daughter’s concern immediately. On top of that, Oliver seemed like a good kid, maybe he didn’t make the best decisions -he had already talked to Thomas Merlyn in private and gotten their exact location during the night of Oliver’s appearance. But Lance knew full well that Robert Queen had never been a good father. Laurel might have been naïve and sheltered enough to fall for whatever excuse the Queen kid cooked up, but Lance had seen enough in his career to see through those weak explanations.

Truthfully, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Oliver had run away, god knew the kid had a lot to run from. At the same time, he knew enough of Oliver’s personality to know it was very unlikely. There were, of course, other things that could have happened. He could have been abducted, it wouldn’t be the first kidnapping case Star City had in recent years. But that seemed unlikely, especially with the fact that no note had been sent.

Laurel was sure something like that had happened, she was adamant that Oliver wouldn’t run away. And if he had, she was sure he would have let her know. Lance was still uncertain. And if Oliver had been snatched, Lance hoped the kidnappers knew just what type of person Robert Queen was, and where his priorities lay.

**OoOoO**

The door opened. Oliver, lying on the floor, barely moved, turning his head to watch as the man stopped in the doorway, looking down at him.

“Get up.”

Oliver didn’t move and the man exhaled slowly.

“It’s cold,” Oliver said. The man nudged his side with his boot. Oliver shifted away from him, but still refused to stand. The man was regarding him now with something close to annoyance. He stepped forward, reaching down and grabbing Oliver’s arm with the obvious intent to simply lift the boy up. Oliver made his move.

He kicked the man in the knees in the brief moment he seemed off balanced, leaning over the boy. Oliver pulled back at the same time, the man still holding onto his arm. He wasn’t actually expecting such a simple thing to work, but the man came down, and immediately, Oliver sprung to his feet and bolted out the bedroom door. He took all three stairs outside the door in one jump, running past the bathroom and down the stairs.

Frantically, he looked around, he had come into some sort of living room, there was a couch, a couple chairs, he could see a kitchen through a doorway. Where was the exit? He heard footsteps on the stairs, not even reflecting on the fact the other man was walking at a casual pace, and flung himself across the room, hurtling into the kitchen and looking around for any type of weapon. It was relatively small, with a table and four chairs across from the cooking and food area.

The counters were clear and he opened a few drawers at random, dumb luck permitted one of them was full of silverware. He grabbed a steak knife, shoving it down into his waistband and kept running. From what he had seen, the downstairs was only those two floors, the entire building seemed relatively small. The second door in the kitchen led to a small foyer at the end of which was a door.

Oliver nearly crashed into it in his hurry and tugged away the locks. Two of them, the usual kind, moved without any problem. The last was just above head height and instead of a deadbolt or something similar, it was a heavy padlock. No matter how much Oliver tried to force it, the piece didn’t move. Cursing, he turned only to find his captor was only about six feet away, leaning idly in the doorframe and watching him.

Nervously, Oliver’s eyes flickered past him, looking for any escape as he flattened himself against the door. The man took a few slow steps forward, looking completely unhurried. “Where are you planning on going, kid?” he asked, the question rhetorical. “I’ve told you we’re no where near your home. You wouldn’t ten minutes outside, what’s your plan?”

“Kill myself before you do,” Oliver said. The man’s expression told him he didn’t find that a valid plan. He took another couple steps towards him and Oliver let his hand trail back to the knife, fingers closing around the handle.

“Come on,” his captor was within range now, reaching out to take ahold of Oliver’s arm. Oliver pulled the knife free, striking wildly at the man’s body. There was a sickening resistance, along with a surprised grunt and Oliver pulled the knife back to slash towards him.

His wrist was caught in an iron grip, and twisted until the knife clattered to the floor, going unnoticed. Oliver, trying to find a way to loosen the pressure on his arm, kicked the man in the shins, his free hand clenched into a fist and lashing out in random punches.

His body slammed back against the door, his head snapping back with the momentum and hitting the wood hard. Before he could blink away the sparks in his vision, a weight pressed against his neck, and Oliver panicked, struggling to pull away the forearm cutting off his air supply.

“Don’t make a dumb choice, kid,” the man’s voice was icily calm. Oliver, still struggling to free himself and breath, stared into the steady, dark eyes. “And don’t think I am incapable of damaging you enough to make escape attempts impossible.” For a moment, the pressure against Oliver’s windpipe increased, then the men stepped back, and Oliver sunk to the floor, drawing in long breaths of air. He stared up at the man, seeing the blood staining his shirt.

“I’m not just going to sit here and do whatever you say,” Oliver said. “You kidnapped me!”

“Don’t pretend as though you have any idea of what’s going on,” the man snarled at him, the fury in his voice stopping whatever Oliver had been prepared to say. “Of the lives that are at stake. Your father’s compliance is critical or else innocent people will suffer. If he was unable to see the fault in his actions before, maybe he’ll see them when his son is involved.” Oliver didn’t say the response that jumped into his head.

_I’d think he’d prefer if you just shot me._

**OoOoO**

After his brief escape attempt, the man had dragged Oliver back up the stairs and locked him in the bedroom once more, ignoring the boy’s disagreement.

“It’s all locked downstairs!” Oliver argued. “Why keep me in here?” The man didn’t offer a reply, merely nudging Oliver inside and shutting the door. Left alone, Oliver slumped down to sit on the floor. He was fairly sure his neck was bruised, it still hurt to draw in breaths. Instinctively, his hand went up to press against the skin lightly. He flinched. It hurt, the pain sparking underneath his fingertips dully.

The worst part about the kidnapping was the abrupt lack of freedom. Maybe Oliver hadn’t been completely independent before, but now, his entire life was controlled by someone else. He was quite literally at the mercy of another man, and it was unsettling. He hated the lack of control it brought, the way it forced him to rely on his captor. He just wanted to go home, but home was out of the question now.

**OoOoO**

The next time the man came in, he brought more food, and Oliver decided it must be around noon. He picked at the plain food -a piece of chicken and vegetables- without complaint. It was impossible to ignore the man who stood to watch him the entire time. This time, he did shut the door, although it was still unlocked.  

“How long am I going to be here?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“As long as it takes,” the man replied. Oliver looked at him.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the answer you’re getting,” came the short response. Oliver scooped up a couple more vegetables, giving himself a few moments before he gave into the constant stream of questions once again.

“How long have I been here already?” he questioned. The man glanced down at his wrist, checking the time there.

“About two and a half days,” he said. Oliver stopped eating, staring at him in shock. _Two and a half days?!_ “You were unconscious for most of the first two.” He added, as if this were a good explanation. _Comforting_. Oliver thought. He had suddenly lost his appetite and pushed the food around distastefully. Seeing he was done, the man gestured for him to stand. Oliver did so, and his captor firmly took ahold of his arm.

Oliver flinched slightly at the sudden grip, but after their tussle earlier, he knew better than to fight back. Instead, he followed the man’s prompting and walked through the door, down the steps and over to the small bathroom. At least the man stayed outside, giving Oliver some privacy in the bathroom. When he came out again, he took Oliver straight back to the room, shoving him inside and reaching out for the handle to pull it shut.

“Wait!” the word burst out of Oliver before he could stop it, the looming threat of being shut in the room again scaring him into speech. The man paused, hand still on the handle, looking at the boy expectantly. “You can’t just lock me in here forever.” It sounded weak to his own ears, but Oliver didn’t want to admit any weaknesses. He was used to loneliness; being constantly mentally and emotionally isolated from other people due to his own secrets and lack of honesty. But this was different, this was _physical_ isolation. Here, there was just no one. Instead, he spent hours with only his mind and whatever horrible things it came up with to keep him company. Here, he had nothing to distract him from those thoughts. Oliver hated it.

“You’re staying in here until the situation is settled,” the man said.

“So I’m just supposed to sit in wait for that?” Oliver asked, voice rising. _Don’t be pathetic._ The man didn’t reply, merely turning away and shutting the door. Oliver was left alone in the room once again. Slowly, he sunk down into the cot.

**OoOoO**

It was less than an hour later when the door opened again. Oliver, surprised by the visit, scrabbled upright, tripping over the blanket as he stepped off the bed. As he fought to get the blanket straightened, the man wordlessly stepped across the room and dropped several items on the cot. Then, without speaking, he left.

Oliver stared after him, confused before he turned to look at what he had brought. There were three books and he picked up the first one, looking at the cover. _The Odyssey._ He had never been much of a reader, but then again, he had never had much of an opportunity to. He sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall and opened the book.

**OoOoO**

_Star City, December 15 th_

The third day had passed with no further news of Oliver. Quentin Lance stopped by to talk to both Mr. and Mrs. Queen, asking them questions about when they had last seen their son, if he had ever made remarks about leaving. He received absolutely no useful information, leaving the mansion with just as many questions as he had when he first came.

They walked Lance to the door, reassuring him they would inform him of any change and thanking him for his time. Quentin left without any others except those which customary courtesy demanded; his opinion of either Robert or Moira had yet to improve.

The door closed after him, and the two turned in stony silence, not speaking to one another. They passed through the foyer, Robert turning to go to his study. Moira walked past him, headed for the sitting room once again. She entered the room and immediately stopped, staring at the unfamiliar woman seated in a chair facing her, legs crossed, arms resting on those of the seat. She was dress in an impeccable suit, the dark grey skirt and jacket perfectly clean and pressed. Her black hair was swept into a low bun poised at the base of her neck, not a single wisp free to fall against her dark, clear skin.

“Mrs. Queen,” she greeted Moira coolly, showing no apology for suddenly appearing in their home. “Do me the favor of summoning your husband; the three of us should talk.” The words were nothing less than an order, and Moira, too stunned by the sudden turn of events, merely turned away and called Raisa, asking she go fetch Robert. Moira reentered the sitting room and seated herself across from the woman. They sat in silence, the quiet only interrupted by the occasional snap from the fire. In a moment, Raisa entered with Robert. The former quietly excused herself as Robert stared at each of them in turn, a frown on his face.

“What is this?” He demanded. “Moira, what’s going on?” She had just begun to shake her head, opening her mouth to say she didn’t know, when the woman spoke, voice calm and dominant.

“Sit down, Mr. Queen, we have a lot to discuss.”

There was a look of both surprise and irritation on his face, first that this woman would tell him to sit down, in his own home and also the way she comfortably did so, seeming to expect him to simply follow the command without any argument. He looked as though he was about to argue, and Moira intervened, she was beginning to think she knew what the meaning of all this was.

“Robert,” her voice was quiet, appealing to him. Her husband glanced in her direction before sitting down, staring at the woman across the room. The intruder’s own gaze moved between the two off them, occasionally lingering on one more than the other.

“I’m sure by now you are aware of the disappearance of your son,” she began, her tone curt and unapologetic. Both of them drew in breath, planning to speak, but the woman’s cold look cut them off. “Oliver is safe,” she said, then added, “for now. Whether he remains in a continuous state of good health or not is solely dependent on your own actions.”

“You took him?” Moira’s voice was unnaturally quiet. “You abducted our son.” The words must have been an accusation, but the sheer shock took away the sting of them. Robert did not suffer from the same problem.

“So what?” He demanded. “Some sort of payment or riches in exchange for his life?”

“Not at all. Don’t make the mistake of assuming this is some sort of crude kidnapping, Mr. Queen. My name is Amanda Waller and I work for an agency of the government that deals in terrorism and international problems. We are aware of your connections to Malcolm Merlyn, and his intentions with this city.” Both Moira and Robert stiffened, each knew exactly what she was speaking of. “And our intent is to prevent him from killing hundreds of civilians.” She inclined her head. “The death of a single boy seems no comparison to that alternative, does it?”

“What do you want?” Robert asked stiffly. The woman smiled slightly, the expression holding no warmth or emotion.

“I will send you future directions via email,” she said, standing. “Follow them directly and there will be no problems, we will quietly arrest Malcolm Merlyn and remove the threat of violence he holds above this city.”

“And if I don’t?” Robert prompted. “You’d kill an innocent child?”

“As I said, Oliver’s life rests upon your decisions, I suggest you think carefully. Good day, Mr. Queen, you can expect a call giving proof of life before the day ends,” she said, excusing herself, she paused, nodding once to Moira. “Mrs. Queen.” She left, red heels clicking softly off of the polished wooden floor, and all Robert Queen could do was stare after her.

**OoOoO**

It was getting dark out by the time the man came again. When it got hard to see, Oliver searched for a light switch on the wall, finding it, and turning on the single light set in the ceiling. He had spent most of the afternoon reading, occasionally having to get up and walk out his cramped legs. Now, the door opened again, and Oliver looked up expectantly.

The man stepped into the room, something Oliver couldn’t see held in his hand. Uncertainly, the boy watched him as he spoke. “Sit down.” He pointed to the cot and Oliver crossed to it, sitting down. The man held up a phone. “Your father is on the other end of this call.” Oliver sat up a little straighter, his stomach clenching painfully. “It will remain on full volume, you will not try to grab it, understood?” He stared at Oliver until the boy nodded. His captor unmuted the call, holding the phone close enough to Oliver that it would pick up his voice. Oliver looked stared at it, his nervousness tinged on sickness. Absentmindedly, he twisted the fingers of his hands together, the skin over his knuckles white. The man looked at him expectantly before making a small gesture with his other hand. He wanted Oliver to talk.

“Dad?” his voice wanted to shake, and Oliver forced himself to keep it steady. He stared down at the floorboards, eyes tracing lines in the wood. He heard a pent-up breath being released before Robert Queen replied.

“Oliver,” he couldn’t read his father’s voice. “Are you alright? Did they hurt you?” Oliver gave a small shake of his head, even though his father wouldn’t see it.

“No,” he said. He drew his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his knees. He resisted the urge to rock back and forth.

“Good,” Robert replied. “That’s good. Just do whatever they tell you. You’ll be home soon.” Oliver didn’t reply, nodding several times absentmindedly before the man took the phone away. He heard footsteps receding before the door shut.

His eyes prickled with tears.


	3. Actions and Consequences

_December 16 th _

Four days after his son’s disappearance, Robert Queen stopped the search, coming out and saying that Oliver had gone to his aunt’s home some hours away. Quentin Lance didn’t believe him for a second, but with the photographic evidence -an image of Oliver with his aunt and uncle at their home- there was little anyone could do to argue. The SCPD was more than happy to shut the case down, and no one was willing to listen to Quentin’s arguments. Laurel shared his indignation, the two of them having a short discussion about it over breakfast.

“But we can’t just let this go!” she demanded, following him around as Quentin collected his necessary items for that day of work. “Maybe Mr. Queen just wants everyone to think it’s okay! It’s not like he ever seemed to care about Oliver! There’s has to be something we can do, Dad!”

“Laurel,” he put a hand on both her shoulders, stopping the tirade. “I get it, but both Oliver’s parents have verified it and we don’t have any reason to not believe them.” He saw her frustration, the tears just beginning to form in her eyes. “Look, I’ll talk to the aunt and uncle, okay? I’ll look around a little more, but you have to accept that they might be telling the truth.” She didn’t want to agree, she didn’t want to believe that Oliver would have left without telling her. But she relented.

“Okay,” it was reluctant.

“So don’t go around persecuting the Queens just yet,” Quentin added, it drew a small smile from his daughter. “If anything changes, I promise I’ll tell you.”

“Laurel!” Dinah Lance looked around the corner, expression harried. “You’re going to be late for school! Your sister’s not even up, do you know where her books are?”

Of course, it was Sara who was late. For all her virtues, her academic skills were certainly not anywhere close to Laurel’s, she simply didn’t take as much of an interest and sometimes, Quentin worried about her reckless nature. Laurel sighed, turning.

“I’ll go get her,” she said, starting up the stairs. Dinah shot Quentin a look.

“She’s really worried,” she said, referring to Laurel. He nodded.

“I don’t like it either,” he admitted. “None of this feels right. He’s a good kid, I never took him as the type to run, no matter how much he had to run from.”

“We live in a messed-up world,” Dinah said. “SCPD decided it’s not worth looking into. Maybe Robert and Moira didn’t want them looking around too much. Maybe they have a lot to hide.”

“I know they do,” Quentin stated. “SCPD has enough to worry about already, of course they’ll be happy to drop any case they can. Besides, you can’t always trust the police to fix every problem.”

“Please don’t get into trouble over this, Quentin,” Dinah replied, worry creeping into her tone. “You’re always telling the girls, you don’t need to look outside the law to find justice.”

“I never said I’ll be outside the law, just looking into a case and making sure it’s actually good to drop. I’m not doing anything illegal.” Quentin spoke reassuringly, trying to wave away his wife’s worries.

“You will, if it comes down to it.”

“I’m a cop, Dinah, this is what I’m supposed to do.”

“You’re also a good man,” she didn’t want to blindly accept his reassurance. “And we both know what type of father Robert Queen is. If it comes down to obeying the law and stepping away or helping a seventeen-year-old boy getting away from a toxic family, there’s no argument to which side you’ll choose.”

“It hasn’t come down to that yet,” Quentin reminded her.

“But it might,” Dinah added. “And if it does, I don’t have any right to argue with you.”

“This family means more to me than anything else, that’ll never change.” She relented, stepping in to his embrace, her head resting on his chest for a moment. “But we all have to do what’s right.”

“I know.”

They stood like that for a moment before the peace was shattered by the sound of feet running down the stairs. Sara, a blonde, blue eyed ball of energy, snatched a granola bar out of the fridge, swinging her backpack onto her shoulder with enough force she nearly knocked a flower vase off the counter. Laurel soon came after her. They bounded past their parents with hurried goodbyes, hugging Dinah, kissing Quentin on the check and arguing on their way out the door. Dinah shook her head after them.

“Just like when they were younger,” she reminisced.

**OoOoO**

“If I was unconscious for the first two days, which is basically forty-eight hours, were we driving that whole time?” Oliver had gone over the specifics behind the question for several hours, lying on the floor and staring up at the darkened ceiling. His captor, who had just entered, shot him a look, the closest to confused Oliver had ever seen him.

“What?”

“We have to be north of Starling, right?” Oliver pressed, sitting up.

“Not necessarily,” the man replied. Oliver frowned.

“But it’s colder here,” he said. The man raised an eyebrow, not replying, and Oliver thought for a moment. “Or east. We might be east of Starling.”

“Do you really think you’re going to figure out our exact location by guessing on the weather?” The man asked cynically. Oliver shrugged, mood dropping faster than a stone at the suggestion. _No. It was a dumb idea._ He sunk back into silence. The man sighed, reaching down to grab ahold of Oliver’s arm and pull him up. “We’re east of Starling,” he said shortly. “Somewhat northeast.” Oliver let himself be pulled to his feet, surprised the man had actually answered. The man searched him, making sure Oliver hadn’t hidden any type of makeshift weapon or whatever else. Once satisfied, he led Oliver out of the room to the bathroom.

After Oliver went through his usual routine, the man, who had waited outside the entire time, came in, holding out a disposable razor for him to take. Oliver took it, glancing down than back at the man who still stood by him, head cocked as he watched him.

“You don’t trust me with a _razor_?” Oliver asked incredulously. The man shrugged.

“Should I?” he asked. Oliver dropped his gaze away from the steady, dark eyes, uncomfortable under their scrutiny. “If you want more freedom give me a reason to believe you won’t do something stupid.” It was fortunate that Oliver’s head was still ducked down, or the man might have seen the flash of rebellion in his eyes.

**OoOoO**

Robert Queen received an email not long after the phone conversation he had with his son. His cursor hovered over it for sometime as he mulled over his options. Then, decidedly, he clicked on it, eyes scanning the written orders.

**OoOoO**

Oliver hated the room he was trapped in. It didn’t matter how much reading he tried to do, he’d always find himself scanning the page mindlessly, not paying any attention to the words since pages before. He thought at least, being kidnapped should be more interesting. Instead, it was long periods of sheer boredom, with nothing to do.

That was what drove him to drop _The Odyssey_ and stand, feeling pent up and distracted all at once. His interested was diverted to the window and the bars once again, and he tried everything he could think of, trying to loosen them. It was utterly impossible, but with no other hope, he didn’t quit. It was only when he heard the rattle of the doorknob, signaling his captor’s return, that Oliver leapt away from the window, nearly tripping onto the bed.

The man entered, eyes sweeping the room in a now familiar scan that he seemed to do often. Almost as though he expected danger behind every door. He held out the bowl for Oliver and the boy took it. They had upgraded, he noticed idly, from paper to real dishes.

“How much longer will this take?” Oliver asked, stirring the soup around listlessly.

“However long it does,” the man replied, echoing his statement from earlier. Oliver glared at him, wanting an honest reply.

“You can’t just keep me locked up here forever!” he said, voice rising in irritation. His captor regarded him.

“What factors would prevent me from doing so?” he questioned. “Your father has shown remarkable cooperation thus far, if things continue to progress smoothly, it should only take four or five months.”

Four or five _months?!_ Obviously, from the man’s tone, he didn’t seem to consider that a long time, but for Oliver, trapped in the same small room…

Any appetite he previously had was now gone, and Oliver set down the spoon. He wasn’t going to survive in here for another four to five months. Now, more than ever, Oliver knew he had to escape. They were hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away from Starling, he wasn’t going to get any help.

**OoOoO**

“It seems you misunderstood my job description,” Simon Lacroix looked at Robert distastefully across the small table. “I’m not the sleuthing type. I kill people, I don’t solve mysteries.”

“And I want you to kill someone,” Robert replied tightly. “That someone I just don’t know the exact location of.” Lacroix snorted, sitting back in his chair, and picking up his bottle, taking a casual swig. Their table was pushed into a corner, out of view of the door, and not within line of sight of any place in the bar. To the usual passerby, there was nothing strange about the sight.

“If you don’t know, then how am I supposed to?” Lacroix asked. He continued. “Seems like you want a private investigator. But you can’t can you, you don’t want this public?” Robert’s expression didn’t encourage more questions.

“I’m offering you two million for the job,” he said shortly. Lacroix’s manner immediately went serious, momentarily stunned by the amount offered. He whistled quietly.

“Pretty serious, aren’t you?”

“There may be more than one person,” Robert continued, ignoring him. “They’re holding my son captive.”

“You’ve had any communication?” Lacroix asked. “Phone calls, emails?”

“One call, the only person who spoke was my son,” Robert replied. “His captor, or captors, didn’t say anything. The number was blocked. I do know the operation is run by a woman named Amanda Waller.”

**OoOoO**

The Queen’s story checked out. Quentin sagged back in his chair, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. It was late. Late enough that everyone else had gone home. Earlier, he had called Robert Queen’s sister to question her about Oliver. He had gone straight to voicemail. Further investigation had proved that the family had left for an out of country trip with their two kids and presumably Oliver. The answering machine had cheerfully informed callers they would be out of touch for a month or longer. Without any way to speak to them, Quentin was at a dead end.

“You look happy,” Lucas Hilton looked down at Quentin, standing next to his desk. “What, did Pike put you on the twelve to eight?”

“Working a case,” Quentin replied shortly, too distracted to put much thought into the reply. Hilton, however, was not that easily deterred. He reached over, hooking the back of a chair and swinging it over to sit down.

“Really? I didn’t hear we got assigned to anything new,” he said.

“That’s because we weren’t,” Quentin said. Hilton became serious.

“You still not letting up on that Queen kid?” he asked, tone making it obvious what he thought about that. Quentin shot him a look.

“Don’t need the lecture,” he warned.

“C’mon Quentin, rich kid runs away from messed up family, goes to his aunt, can you really say you’re surprised?” Hilton demanded. “You never liked Robert Queen to start.”

“They called off the search four days after he disappeared,” Quentin said, ignoring him. “That’s too long a time to think they didn’t hear from the aunt or at least think to call family.”

“The kid spent more time at your place than he did at his own home!” Hilton argued. “You said it yourself.” Their conversations, used to fill the gaps of waiting while working, ranged from the newest equipment to family to movies and everything in between. Quentin wasn’t surprised he remembered that particular one.

“He wasn’t the running type,” Quentin said. “And even if he was, he and Laurel were close enough he would have gone to her first.”

“Push anyone far enough and they’ll snap,” Hilton reminded him. Quentin was still unconvinced and Lucas looked like he barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

“Dad!” Laurel exploded across the room, brown hair out of place, looking harried. She slid to a stop by the desk, barely registering Hilton’s existence with a quick; “Hi Detective Lucas,” before rambling on. “I was looking at that picture from Oliver and his aunt and uncle. It’s not recent, it’s from six months ago when they visited the Queen’s here,” she sounded out of breath, and spoke so fast Quentin almost didn’t understand. She held up a photograph, obviously, she had printed it out at home. She set it down on the desk enthusiastically, pointing to Oliver’s wrist, just barely visible on the edge of the frame. “See? Oliver’s wearing a watch. It was broken a month after this picture was taken.” She said. “He hasn’t worn one since!” She sounded victorious, and Quentin hesitated, sharing a look with Hilton.

He might be unwilling to give up the case, but such evidence was so slim, it would never hold up. He took a moment before replying, carefully structuring his next few words. “Laurel, honey, that’s not a lot to go on.” He said carefully. Her expression deflated.

“But you said you agreed with me!” she said, misunderstanding him. Hilton, who was still behind Laurel, frowned at Quentin, not following the conversation. Lance barely spared him a look.

“I do,” Quentin reassured her. “But there’s more evidence saying Oliver left of his own accord. And you shouldn’t be spending all your time on this, alright?” He hated the look of betrayal in her gaze. “If anything comes up, I’ll let you know, alright? But you need to let this rest.” She dropped her hands away from the picture, nodding, but not meeting his gaze.

“Okay, I will.”

**OoOoO**

It was snowing again. The heavy white flakes drifted lazily to the ground outside Oliver’s window, laying the thick white blanket already laid over the ground. Oliver stared out at it, his book forgotten. If he ever got out of here, he would never live anywhere with snow, he promised himself.

It was dark outside when the man came back, but Oliver knew it was still late afternoon. He listened to the door unlock and followed the man’s gesture, going to stand and allow himself to be led out of the room and over to the bathroom.

He didn’t try to make conversation, he didn’t really feel like it, and his captor was never interested in talking. Unless Oliver tried to ask a question, he’d remain silent. Shutting himself in the small bathroom, there was no window he could escape from, and Oliver had no other choices. The man was so paranoid he might have just thought through everything before Oliver even considered it.

When he opened the door again, the man was directly outside of it, and something about the way he looked up, expression grim and set, made Oliver hesitate in the doorway. His gaze trailed down, seeing the phone in the man’s hand and his brain worked quickly.

“No!” He slammed the door shut, leaning all his weight against it. That wasn’t enough. His captor shouldered the door inward, nearly knocking Oliver over. The boy’s struggles were basically useless. He threw a wild punch which his captor avoided, catching his arm and twisting it, sending Oliver to his knees. Pain erupted in his shoulder, as if the limb were about to tear, and he couldn’t struggle against it.

“I’m not going to kill you,” his captor said, voice low, close to Oliver’s ear. “There was no order to. Only the need for a warning.” Before Oliver could ask the meaning of that, the man forced him to his feet, his free hand going to Oliver’s shoulder, opposite the arm he was holding to steer him.

Oliver slammed his head backward, but instead of connecting with the man’s face, he merely gave himself whiplash with the sudden movement. He was forced down the hall, in the opposite direction of the bedroom, and into a small, windowless room. There was a single chair set in the middle underneath a bare lightbulb.

“What do you mean a warning?! What happened?” Oliver’s voice rose as he demanded the questions. He didn’t get a reply.

The man half dragged him to the chair, pushing him down to sit, and tying his hands behind him with some sort of plastic strands that bit into his wrists. Oliver kicked at him as he came around again, but the attack was as useless as everything else he had tried to do. The man carelessly batted it aside, fastening his ankles. Oliver struggled against the bonds.

“What’s going on?” he asked. The dark eyes came up to meet his briefly.

“Your father made a rash decision.” He stood, walking behind Oliver and momentarily out of sight. A piece of cloth moved past his face, covering his mouth and knotting tightly behind his head, cutting off his words. The man passed by him again, walking through the door. The words Oliver tried to yell after him were muffled by the gag. Was he just going to be left here?

After he left, Oliver worked to try to get himself free, or at least move the chair to the door. He was close when it teetered, overbalanced by his momentum and he spilled onto his side. He was unable to stop his fall, his head smacked off the wooden floorboards. He yanked at the zip ties, but they didn’t give. He felt a surge of panic as he looked around him. The door was still open but there was no way he could get out. He felt as if he had been put in a cage too small. One that squeezed down around him. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to shake away the pounding fear.

A board creaked underneath a foot, and Oliver looked up, by now, his limbs were going numb. He gave a startled shout that made no noise as his heart gave a sudden jolt. He couldn’t see the expression the man wore, the mask covered that, half black, half orange with no features detailed on. A handle protruded over his shoulder. He carried a camera and tripod, setting the latter up and placing the camera on top and setting it to record before stepping over to lift the chair up, placing Oliver in direct line of the lens.

The young American struggled frantically, ducking his head and trying to move away. A firm hand in his hair forced his face directly to the camera, he could feel the man standing behind him, close enough that the back of Oliver’s head brushed against his lower stomach area. It was too painful to pull away from the hold, and instead, he moved his shoulders, trying to loosen the bonds. Every movement froze as something cold and sharp nicked the side of his throat

_Oh god._

Emphatically, expressively the blade pressed against his neck, biting into the flesh until a thick drop of something warm rolled down to his collarbone. Oliver didn’t know if it was fear or the sword holding him still but suddenly, the idea of moving seemed impossible. The blade pressed a little harder and his eyes snapped shut, forcing down the whimper before it could surface. It took all of his self will to open his eyes once more as the man spoke, not to him, but to the camera.

“This is a warning, Mr. Queen.”

Was this going to be his death? Slow and precise at the hand of a man working for some hidden higher force? _Warning_. He held onto that word. He had said it was just a warning. He wasn’t going to kill him. He wasn’t…right? _Why wouldn’t he?_ And why was the steel still pressing into his skin, causing blood to drip down onto his shirt? Why was his hand still gripping Oliver’s hair, keeping his throat bared and accessible?

 _Please_ …he wasn’t going to beg. Ever. That little bit of pride was still there, he wouldn’t give his captor that satisfaction. Even with the sting of the sharp blade cutting his skin. Blood roared in his ears, drowning out any other noise. His hands closed into tight fists, unable to stop shaking. Behind him, the man seemed impassive as ever.

_Please stop._

Finally, after what felt like hours, the sword moved away. His head was released and he immediately dropped it to his chest, ignoring the sting at his throat. He didn’t look up as the man collected the camera and moved away, kicking the door shut. The room was plunged into utter darkness.

He knew the walls and ceiling had to be just inches from him. The very idea caused the breath caught in his throat, choking off his attempts to breathe. Every heartbeat felt like a drum in his chest, pounding dully and seeming to echo around him.

The pressure on his chest was overwhelming, a crushing sensation that ruled out every other feeling. The air itself was pushing down on his, squeezing the air from his lungs and slowly compressing his entire body. Every attempt at a breath drove a flash of stabbing, sharp pain through his chest. Tears ran down his face, he didn’t know when he had started crying. He was going to die here in the dark, all alone. No one knew. No one cared. His body shook, quivering as he breathed, the quick, sharp breaths barely bringing in any oxygen. His eyes shut tightly, his body instinctively trying to roll into a ball but restrained from doing so by the bonds.

Light fell across his eyelids, and Oliver flinched violently at the abrupt sound of the door opening, not looking up. He barely registered the footsteps coming across to him, he didn’t see the man drop down into a crouch next to him, reaching out and untying Oliver’s bond, making air a little more accessible. His breathing, however, stayed fast and shallow. He felt the bonds around his wrist and ankles loosen and immediately curled in on himself.

Hands made him sit up, even when Oliver leaned away from them. He felt a warm weight settle on his both his shoulders, obvious even through the thin material of his shirt. “Kid,” he ignored the voice, his face buried in his knees. “Kid, you need to breathe.” He was breathing, if he wasn’t he’d be dead, but Oliver didn’t try to say that. “Slowly.” The hands squeezed. “Inhale…” Oliver dragged in one breath, clinging to it like a lifeline. “Exhale.” It was a moment before he followed the order, releasing the air reluctantly. He felt as though he’d never get it back. “Again.” He lost track of how many times he breathed in and out, prompted by the man’s quiet, calm voice. At one point, he finally uncurled a little and looked up into the man’s face. “You’re doing good, kid. Just keep going.”

Soon, he was left with only a headache and sore eyes, his shoulders slumped and staring at the floorboards. The man gave him a few minutes until he seemed sure Oliver was calmer than earlier, then his hand went under his arm to pull him up. Oliver followed the gesture, stumbling out of the space and back to the bedroom.

**OoOoO**

Robert Queen worked at his desk, files spread out around him and a phone close to hand. The preparation had gone smoothly. Most of Malcom Merlyn’s ‘friends’ or rather, allies, were too loyally devoted to the idea of the Undertaking, one, Robert had been able to persuade, and the man had agreed to grant him a favor in the form of a private jet trip for two, neither of whom was himself. There had been a second stage, and it had gone just as well, he expected to hear from the man soon.

“Well, Mr. Queen, you’ve been busy,” the voice caught him by surprise and he almost jumped as Amanda Waller strode into the room. “Unfortunately, Mr. Chen’s private jet has had some…technical, malfunctions.” She added, resting her fingers on the desk and leaning forward. “But currently, I’m more interested in your meeting with Simon Lacroix.” He stiffened and she smiled. “This really isn’t his style, he’s wise enough to not go against ARGUS.”

“What do you expect?” Robert asked angrily.

“As I’ve said before, your cooperation,” Waller replied calmly. “I’ve given you enough motive so that you should already be providing full collaboration eagerly.”

“You’re threatening my son!” he translated. “And you expect me to simply _trust_ you?”

“I wasn’t aware you had a choice. I’m also curious if you’re more interested in keeping your son or investment safe,” she said coolly. An email binged its arrival. “I recommend you check that,” she added. Slowly, Robert’s eyes went back to the screen as he opened the tab, clicking on the email. There was no message, but there was a video attachment. He had a heavy feeling in his stomach as he opened it, the lighting was not professional, it was harsh and abrupt, but the subject of the video was obvious. He saw the blade press against his son’s throat and his hands tightened on the desk lip.

_This is a warning, Mr. Queen._

The woman watched his expression before straightening and stepping away. “You already have one strike, Mr. Queen, I recommend you don’t try for another.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not on a Sunday, but I think I've missed about two updates so there's that. My schedule is a fucking mess.


	4. War and Peace

_December 17 th_

Oliver spent most the night plotting his attack, unable to sleep. The man had left him alone the previous evening after bringing him back to the room. Once he had gone, once Oliver’s mind finally worked itself straight, an idea came to him, and he rose quietly, creeping over to the cot. It was the folding kind, and Oliver manipulated it into the desired position, just inside the door. Once that was done, he turned to scour the room for any type of weapon. There weren’t many options. He had just begun to lose hope when his gaze fell on the books.

There was one larger than the rest, hardbound and thick. _War and Peace_ by Leo Toystory or something like that. He hefted it, feeling the weight. It was heavy, and while it was still a long shot, it was the only chance Oliver had. He sat on the floor, back to the wall, and waited.  He dozed off at some point, waking when the first vestige of sunrise was just visible outside the window. He stood, feeling alert and tense, waiting for the telltale sound of footsteps.

It was an hour or so before the man came. The rattle of a key in the lock sounded unnaturally loud to Oliver’s ears, and he had to force himself not to jump. The door swung inward, the men stepping forward at the same moment, and Oliver kicked the cot further toward him.

The man tripped, off-balanced, and Oliver swung the book overhand, aiming directly for his head. He didn’t see the movement, but a moment later, he was on the ground, wheezing for air with a searing pain in his solar plexus. He came up off the ground, lunging at the man only to have his captor step to the side, knocking him into the wood boards. Oliver turned right fist swinging wide and the man merely caught the wild punch, hands tightening on his wrist and slamming him into the wall. Oliver barely managed to turn his face to his body contorting as he tried to keep the pressure off his shoulder. He struggled, only to feel another warning twist, pride, and self-preservation at odds with each other. Pain erupted as the man applied a little more pressure.

“Remember one thing,” the man told him quietly, voice directly behind him. “If you continue acting this stupidly, I will keep you completely restrained at all times. Your freedom to move around this room is a privilege.” Oliver gritted his teeth against the pain, his chest was pressed so tightly against the wall, he could feel the impressions the wood left in his skin. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Oliver ground out. The man stepped back, not releasing him, but allowing Oliver to turn around.

“It’s no permanent damage,” his captor said, kicking the door shut. He flipped the cot right side up again with one foot, kicking towards its initial place and pushing Oliver over to it, having him sit. He stared at the man, angry at himself for failing so miserably. His captor ignored the expression. “Let me see your throat.” Oliver froze, not sure what was about to come. At the lack of response, the man moved closer, hand gripping Oliver’s jaw and forcing his head upward, looking at the ceiling. The movement pulled at the slice in his throat, and Oliver winced. His captor’s hand dropped away with the order; “Stay.”

Oliver was a few seconds away from arguing that he wasn’t a fucking _dog_ when something wet pressed against the cut. It stung harshly, and Oliver jumped away with a surprised yelp. The man’s expression was irritated. “Stay still.” Oliver stilled immediately, the waspish tone leaving no question to the order. He heard a quiet sigh again, and the man moved to pull a small packet out of his pocket and offered it to Oliver. Oliver took it, looking at the plain printed text.

“Just an alcohol swab,” the man said. “For cleaning.” Wordlessly, Oliver tipped his head up again, and the man finished whipping away the flecks of dried blood. When he stepped back, Oliver dropped his head, instinctively feeling the cut. “It’s superficial,” the man told him, seeing the gesture. “Your carotid arteries are either side of the neck, set deep. And your trachea was untouched.” Oliver looked at him blankly, mind working through what he had said. He was eight percent sure the ‘trachea’ was the windpipe, and while he didn’t recognize the word he had said before arteries, that was straightforward.

“Did he get the message?” he asked, knowing he didn’t have to specify who he meant by ‘he’. The man nodded once, the gesture a bare tip of his head.

“Yes. It seemed to have the desired effect.”

“Great,” Oliver said sarcastically. “Wouldn’t want to reshoot that.” The man regarded him momentarily, Oliver didn’t meet his gaze.

“Come on,” he gestured for Oliver to come to his feet, and the younger did so. The man escorted him to the bathroom, then back to the bedroom again, and locked the door, returning a few minutes later with breakfast. Oliver had little appetite, and he looked at the bowl unappealingly, taking it. He stirred the oatmeal, then looked up at the man.

“Are you Scottish?” he asked.

“ _What_?” It seemed ironic that question was the one to get such a strong reaction from him.

“I don’t know,” Oliver muttered, looking down at the oatmeal. “You have an accent.”

“And you think I’m _Scottish_?” his captor asked. Oliver shrugged. The man shook his head, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘fucking Americans’ as he crossed the room, stooping and collecting the book from the floor. He glanced at it briefly before turning back to Oliver, lifting it fractionally. “Might be a dull read but that doesn’t make it a good weapon,” he said.

“I didn’t have many choices,” Oliver muttered defensively.

“Then don’t try dumb attacks that are doomed to fail,” the man told him. “I am perfectly serious, kid, if necessary, I will move you to less comfortable accommodations. My job is to keep you alive, not comfortable. With your condition I doubt you want that.” Oliver glared at him.

“I don’t have a _condition_ ,” he said, not knowing what the man really meant, but not liking it either way.

“You were panicking,” his captor reminded him.

“I don’t like small places,” Oliver retorted. “Or being tied up.”

“You’re claustrophobic.”

“No, I’m not,” he snapped, angry now. The man raised an eyebrow at him and somehow, that just ticked Oliver off more. “’Cause, I’m not always in a small space when it happens.” Oliver finished, voice dropping the longer he spoke. He didn’t like bringing it up. He had been told never to mention it, it was childish and he needed to mature. The man tipped his head.

“How long have you the attacks?” he asked. Oliver wasn’t sure why he was suddenly so talkative. He shrugged.

“Since I was a kid,” he muttered, stabbing his oatmeal with a spoon.

“You’re still a kid.”

“Like seven or eight,” Oliver replied, glaring at the man but also unable to deny the statement. He wasn’t a child, but he wasn’t technically an adult either. Not until May, at least.

“You should know how to respond by now,” his captor said, and Oliver shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to have a repeat of the same conversation. He stabbed the oatmeal a couple more times, feeling the spoon hit the bowl.

“They end eventually,” he said, suddenly wishing the man hadn’t tried to talk at all. “I can keep them quiet.” For a long moment, the man just stared at him, expression unreadable, brows brought together fractionally. Then he shook his head.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered the words, and Oliver was fairly certain it wasn’t the start to a prayer. “Quiet isn’t equivalent to handling. You need to remember to regulate your breathing. Don’t let yourself curl up and find something else to focus on.”

“Like what?” Oliver asked.

“Anything that takes concentration, recite a passage or poem, song even,” he replied, he nodded to the bowl, changing the subject abruptly. “You need to eat, kid.” Oliver looked down at the oatmeal. He hadn’t forgotten it was there, but he had forgotten it was edible. He lifted the spoon, it had cooled off during their conversation and it was easy to eat now.

The man took the bowl once he was finished, not making any further attempts at conversation. Soon, Oliver was alone in the room again, and he made his way over to the window, deciding to work on it again. He tried to find screws or something that held the bars in place. He leaned his full weight against it and then suddenly, fell back, still holding on to the bars. He hoped doing such would loosen them, but it barely seemed to work. On the third time, however, he thought he felt them move. Hope blossomed, and he renewed his gesture with vigor.

Then abruptly, when he was rocking his weight forward again, his right hand slipped off the bar. Pitched forward, off balance and taken by surprise, Oliver wasn’t able to stop his fall and his hand slammed into the window. The glass shattered under the impact, his hand going through. His arm fell against the jagged glass and pain blossomed. Blood ran down the glass, and Oliver pulled his arm back, biting his lip to swallow down the cry of pain. The broken glass had cut through the skin on the underside of his arm, just below his wrist. It was bleeding heavily, and Oliver breathed out, trying to figure out what to do. He clamped his hand over it, trying to stop the bleeding, and searched the room.

He ended up shredding the pillowcase. His sleeve was also ripped from where the glass had caught it, stained with blood. If he kept his arms crossed, it wasn’t noticeable. Oliver did his best to clean up the mess, inexperienced with anything of the sort. His hands were shaking uncontrollably as Oliver frantically covered the evidence, rearranging his shirt and shoving bloody tatters of cloth underneath the cot. His heart was beating painfully fast, as if it were trying to force its way out of his chest.

His entire body shaking, Oliver slowly sank back onto the cot, drawing his knees close to his chest and curling around his legs. Is it going to get infected? He had heard of people getting some type of poisoning from rusted metal, was that going to happen? How could he prevent it? Am I going to die? No, it wasn’t that bad a cut…

Right?

Oliver didn’t have any experience with serious injuries. He had broken his ankle once when he was fourteen, trying to climb over a chain-link fence. He had lost his grip and slipped, tried to land on his feet. Tommy had panicked, and Oliver just remembered being in a lot of pain. He had gone to the hospital, then home, where Moira had lectured him about climbing fences and going into private property and Raisa had fussed over him. It all seemed so distant now.

He wanted to go home, but at the same time, he was scared to. What would happen when he went home? Would everything just go back to normal? At least normal was predictable, he knew what was going to come every day. Even if he had spent every waking hour wanting to get away from it, no one was threatening to kill him. He missed Laurel and Tommy.

He hated it here, with a nameless captor willing to kill him without hesitation. Surrounded by snow and completely isolated from the rest of the world. He wanted to go home.

**OoOoO**

Moira hadn’t welcomed Quentin willingly, her expression making it clear she knew his reasons for being there and did not appreciate the continued questions. She didn’t invite him into the sitting room and made it clear the topic was off limits.

“We have already given full testimony to SCPD,” she said sharply. “The matter is closed, Detective, and I don’t appreciate your continued harassment of our family.” Lance hadn’t expected much friendlies, but the abruptness of her statement did take him off-guard.

“If you don’t mind, Mrs. Queen,” he said. “I just have a couple questions for you.” She sighed, but as she didn’t call the personal security, or leave, he took it as permission to continue. He held up the photograph. “This is the picture your husband’s sister sent, right?”

“That is correct,” she said with a terse nod. “May I ask where this is going?”

“After looking at this picture, my daughter insisted it was taken the last time your husband’s sister and her family visited,” Quentin continued. Had this been a normal case, he wouldn’t have brought Laurel into it, but he hoped mentioning Oliver’s friend might convince Moira he was here to help. “In this photo, he’s wearing a watch, she said he broke his watch and hasn’t worn one since then.” Moira turned away briefly, and Quentin’s heart sank, the small gesture said quite a bit.

“I hardly think that is ample evidence for you to come marching into my home demanding me to answer whatever absurd questions you think up,” Moira said sharply. “If you’re going to continue this at least have something solid, Detective. Now, please leave.” Quentin turned towards the door, then paused.

“Look,” Moira faced him, arms crossed. “If there’s some sort of legal trouble your family’s in.” She stiffened. “Whatever it is-”

“My family is not criminals and I do not like your suggestion that we are,” she snapped. “Good day, Detective.” Quentin had no choice but to leave. The door shut loudly behind him, and he sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. That went well. He thought. Real well.

**OoOoO**

Moira’s hands were shaking. This was getting to dangerous, too many people were asking questions. It was only a matter of time before someone figured out the truth. She took a deep breath, calming her nerves and walking across the carpeted floor, her heels silent. Raisa seemed to materialize in a doorway opposite her.

“Mrs. Queen? The telephone,” she held it out, and Moira accepted it with a smile.

“Thank you, Raisa,” she said, polite dismissal in her tone. She lifted the phone to her ear. “This is Moira Queen.”

“Mrs. Queen, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Moira sank into a chair, a hand pressing against her mouth. This couldn’t be true.

**OoOoO**

Oliver couldn’t calm down. He did the best he could to hide the damage, shoving bloody tatters of material under the cot and adjusting his sleeve to hide the bloodstains. The draft from the window, however, he had no way of covering, and he just had to make sure the man didn’t stand where it was obvious. He hadn’t gone to the bars since. Maybe they were looser now, but Oliver didn’t dare mess with them more after what happened.

It was nearing lunchtime, and he couldn’t sit down, his body was quivering with nerves. He heard the creak of the steps outside his door and froze, immediately dropping to the ground and snatching a book, opening it to a random page. The door opened, and Oliver looked up, pretending as though he had been reading. The man closed the door slowly, the precise movement seemed very wrong, and Oliver stiffened a little. Did he know? How could he? He faced Oliver, expression grim.

“There was an accident,” his gruff voice was softer than usual, and that alone said something was very wrong. Oliver set the book aside, temporarily forgetting about his arm.

“What happened?” he asked, voice barely audible, almost too scared to know.

“Your father,” he said, voice too calm. “There was a drunk driver, his car was run off the road on the way to work.” Oliver froze, words seeming to echo strangely around him. He pulled himself into a tighter ball, pressing his face into his legs. “The vehicle went off the bridge into a river. Neither the driver nor passenger survived. Your father’s dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me three tries to misspell Tolstoy.


	5. Delicate Information

Oliver wrapped his arms around his pillow, pulling it tight against his chest and burying his face into it, not even bothering to get underneath the blanket. Tears stung in his eyes, falling unchecked. It was all his fault. If he hadn’t gone out to the club. If he hadn’t been kidnapped. If he had managed to escape. If he had just been better, done better, he wouldn’t have let his father down yet again. He had never imagined a life without Robert alive, despite everything, he had never wanted him dead. Now he was gone, forever, and it wall all Oliver’s fault.

What would happen now? Was he useless to whatever plan was conspiring? Would his captor be simply ordered to execute him? The questions should have frightened him, driven him to near insanity with worry, but any fear Oliver should have felt was overridden by his grief. Maybe his own death wasn’t such a bad thing, not if it prevented more people dying because of him

Outside was dark, while it was far from night, the heavy grey skies covered the sun, shedding little flakes of snow. Eventually, he fell asleep.

**OoOoO**

“Mr. Merlyn, Mrs. Queen is here to see you,” Louise Quinn peeked around the door of Malcolm’s office, her nervous brown eyes not quite making contact with his gaze. Malcolm set down his pen, lacing his fingers together on the desk and nodding.

“Show her in, please,” he said calmly, nodding to his assistant. She disappeared around the doorframe, emerging again just ahead of Moira Queen, hastily pulling the door out of her way as the woman swept into the room. She was a stately figure, walking with a natural grace and dignity even as she wore the black clothes of her grief.

Her anger was palpable, as soon as the door shut, she let loose, her burning eyes glaring at him with so much accusation, Malcolm might have found it frightening. Had he been a lesser man. As it was, he met her accusing stare evenly.

“How dare you!” She hissed out the words, the volume doing nothing to detract from their weight. “You had Robert killed!” The accusation was blunt. She wasn’t asking, she already knew the answer. “You had no right to murder my husband!”

“Why don’t you have a seat, Moira,” Malcolm said conversationally. “And then we can discuss your husband’s unfortunate demise and who he had been previously plotting with.” Her expression tightened, his straightforward allegation taking her off guard.  “I did what I had to, Moira. Believe me that I am sorry for having hurt you.”

“But not for killing Robert,” Moira replied.

“Don’t forget, he was my friend,” Malcolm’s tone sharpened with reprimand, drawing a fresh flash of anger from the woman.

“Oh, I remember,” she said bitterly. “I just know that means nothing to you.” Merlyn stood, still calm, still composed, but obviously irked by her words. There was no regret in his ice blue eyes as he held her gaze, no guilt that caused him to look away.

“Robert was compromising our mission,” Merlyn said, voice dangerously low. “Do you understand that? He had outside help. This was not simply doubt, he was rebelling against the entire plan.” He saw something in her eyes. Worry? Dread? She knew something. Slowly, every movement pronounced, he stepped around the desk. “Which you know.”

“Maybe he finally had clarity,” she hissed. “And realized just how much of a madman you really are.” But there was a telling falter in her posture as he came into a risky range. She was afraid of him.

“Don’t forget,” Malcolm said, he barely had to speak above a murmur for her to hear. “There are other…accidents that might befall others who get in the way.”

“Don’t threaten my family, Malcom,” Moira drew herself up, there was an elegant stubbornness in her, something that Merlyn admired.

“You know who Robert’s fellow rebels are,” he knew that almost certainly now based on her body language and mannerisms alone. “I won’t harm either your children or you so long as I know you are fully on my side.” She was afraid, it was evident now, but her fear wasn’t just of him. The last puzzle piece fell into place, and everything clicked. “Or are you afraid if you don’t take up Robert’s insurgence, Oliver’s captors will punish your son?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Moira denied it too fast. He leaned forward fractionally.

“Don’t lie to me, Moira, you know much more than you pretend to,” he said silkily. “You still have a daughter at home, remember that.”

“His kidnappers never revealed themselves,” she finally said. “They only spoke to Robert through email.” Malcolm nodded. He had suspected as much. “They threatened to take his life!”

“Then your son is a causality,” Malcolm stated. “Don’t you agree it would be better if you didn’t have such concerns?”

“Don’t touch my son!” She spat, her voice rising.

“Then work with me,” he replied. “I’ll be by tomorrow to look through Robert’s things, I will know if you tamper with any of it.” He seated himself again, looking down at his work, dismissing her. Moira hesitated for a moment, not leaving. As she turned to go, she made a parting remark.

“They know who you are, Malcolm, don’t think you’re ahead of them in this game.”

**OoOoO**

Quentin Lance had barley passed through the doors of the precinct when he was hailed by Hilton almost running across the floor, his expression grim.

“I take it you’ve heard,” he said, bypassing a greeting. Quentin frowned at him, shaking his head.

“Heard what?” there was nothing specific that sprung to mind at Lucas’s words, and judging from his expression, it had to be something big.

“Robert Queen died this morning,” Hilton replied, getting straight to the point. “Drunk driver ran his car off the road into the river.” Lance closed his eyes, muttering a curse at the news. He didn’t care how perfectly accidental it seemed, this was just more evidence that something was going on with the Queen family.

“I just spoke to his wife,” he said. “Not long ago, she didn’t seem to know.”

“We just got the call,” Hilton explained. “She must have heard not even an hour ago. What were you doing over there, anyway, still continuing this mad hunch that there’s some massive conspiracy around the Queens?”

“Yeah well this seems to put a cherry atop it, doesn’t it?” Quentin replied sarcastically. “First their son goes missing, they make a massive fuss only to suddenly quiet down and claim he was just visiting relatives. Second, dad dies. You think those are just coincidences?”

“Nope,” Hilton said, surprising Quentin. “Seems like you might have been right. But Pike still thinks they are coincidences, and so does what seems to be everyone else. Do you really want to get up and tell them they’re all wrong?”

“I’m not giving this up yet,” Lance told him. Hilton shook his head, walking off and muttering something uncomplimentary about Lance. Quentin ignored him. He went and sat down at his desk, leaning back in his chair and sighing. This would be easier if he had any sort of real lead.

**OoOoO**

Laurel’s hands were shaking. The white mittens did little to stop the quaver, as it had nothing to do with cold, after all. She shoved them down into her pockets, trudging up the long driveway towards the Queen Mansion. Her father would be furious if he knew what she was doing, and that was why she hadn’t told him.

When she knocked on the door, it was a moment before it opened, Raisa looking around the edge. She smiled when she saw Laurel, but the expression seemed a little more strained than usual. Even so, she opened the door, welcoming her in.

“Ms. Laurel, it is nice to see you,” she said, closing the door after the girl.

“It’s good to see you too,” Laurel replied. The house was deadly quiet. Like a tomb, she reflected. “I’m here to see Mrs. Queen and see how she is, is this a good time?”

“I am sorry, Mrs. Queen is not here,” she said. “But I will pass along your condolences.”

“There’s something else,” Laurel said. “I left a couple books here, I was studying with Oliver, have you seen them?” Raisa shook her head.

“No, but you are free to look,” she said. The phone rung, and she hesitated. Laurel quickly took advantage of the situation.

“I know my way around,” she gave a bright smile. Raisa nodded and left to go answer. Knowing she probably didn’t have long, Laurel sprinted upstairs, forging entering Oliver’s room and instead turning to push open the door to Robert’s office. She moved across the floor, dropping down next to the computer and opening the desk drawers as quietly as she could.

There was nothing out of the ordinary, and Laurel’s frustration grew, thinking this might have been a useless mission. She shut the last drawer, giving up. She was just about to leave, when her eyes fell on the notepad. The first page was blank, except she could see faint indentations in it. She snatched a pencil off the desk, shading the paper until words stood out. She stood, quickly, stuffing it out of sight and escaping the office, just making it halfway down the stairs before Raisa met her again.

“Did you find it?” she asked. Laurel shook her head.

“No, sorry to bother you,” she said. She said her goodbyes and escaped into the cold air, her fingers closed around the pad of paper in her pocket.

**OoOoO**

Oliver awoke shivering. He curled into a tight ball, trying to will away the chill that seemed trapped in his chest. It was getting colder, if such a thing was possible. With every day that passed, the room lost a little more warmth. The blanket covered him up to his neck, although Oliver had no recollection of crawling underneath it. Maybe he had done so in his sleep.

He sat up, pushing the material aside and stared blankly out the window. It was still snowing, but dark out now, signaling that hours had passed since his captor had come with the news of Robert’s death. He sat still, legs drawn up underneath him, until the door opened. The man stood still for a moment before speaking.

“Kid,” Oliver looked up at the nickname. “Come on.” He stood reluctantly, letting the blanket drop onto the bed and trudging over to his captor who stepped aside, allowing him to pass by and into the hallway. Mechanically, Oliver walked down to the little bathroom, shutting himself in and methodically stripping off his clothes, turning on the shower. When the water was warm enough, he stepped in, feeling as though all his movements were automatic, and unable to put any real thought into what he was doing. The water was hot enough to burn his skin, but Oliver didn’t turn the dial, trying to find some comfort in the heat.

He didn’t step out until the water ran cold, which realistically, wasn’t long, and dried off. He dressed again in the clean clothes set out, pulling the loose shirt over his head and donning the sweatpants. When he reemerged from the bathroom again, the man straightened from his posture leaning against the wall, following Oliver as he immediately made his way back to the bedroom. Oliver dropped down onto the cot, feeling exhausted even though he had done very little. The man paused again, watching him from the door.

“Are you going to eat anything, kid?” he asked. Oliver shook his head.

“I’m not hungry.” He said, voice barely above a murmur. The man closed the door, and Oliver was left alone again. It didn’t matter that he had just slept several hours, he was still tired, and dropped down to bury his face in the pillow. Sleep was easier than being awake. Once again, he felt the familiar buildup of tears, but now, Oliver was far too tired to try to fight them. His hands fisted in the blanket, shoulders shaking. He pressed his face into the pillow, muffling any sounds that slipped around his determination to hold them back.

The whimper that escaped was barely audible. Broken, soft. It slipped out of him before he could stop it, and Oliver tried to slow his breathing, hoping that might help. Unexpectedly, the door opened, and Oliver froze, stiff and ridged, not knowing if the man had heard him.

He heard the soft footsteps move across the room, coming towards him, and Oliver tensed a little more. _Why is he here?_ He didn’t move, didn’t even twitch as the man drew closer. He heard the swish of material and something heavy dropped on the edge of the cot next to his body. Then the footsteps moved away.

When the door closed, Oliver slowly lifted his head from the pillow, hearing the lock click and reached down in the darkness, feeling for the foreign object. His hand brushed over soft material, and the boy sat up. He couldn’t see the details, but as he pulled it apart, feeling his way along the length, Oliver figured out it was a heavy quilt. He pulled it over himself, tucking it around his body as tightly as he could, eventually, sleep claimed him.

**OoOoO**

_December 18 th_

The door was flung open, smashing into the wall and jolting Oliver into full consciousness painfully. He scrabbled to stand, nearly tripping over himself as he lunged to his feet, heart beating in his throat. The man stalked into the room, holding something in one hand and looked furious. As he continued to move forward, Oliver instinctively gave ground, backing up until he hit the wall and plastering himself back against the wood.

He looked around the room, frantic for some sort of escape, but his brief dash towards the open door was easily stopped. The man caught his bicep, shoving him back against the wall and cutting off his hope of getting away.

“What the fuck did you do?” His voice was angry, a furious snarl that was just barely more terrifying than the dark look in his eyes, so obvious from the proximity of the man. It felt natural for Oliver to wrap his arms around his body, pressing himself against the wall. He had no idea what the man was asking, and couldn’t find the words to answer. It was habit that told him to keep himself as small as possible, pushed back against the wood, not making eye contact. His passivity didn’t do anything to calm the man, however, and he tightened his grip. “What did you do?” he repeated.

“I-I don’t-” Oliver’s hurried procession of ignorance was cut short as the man shoved the wad of material into his arms. Oliver looked at it, not recognizing it for a moment before he saw the torn sleeve and blood stains.

“How did you cut yourself?” his captor didn’t give him much time to study the cloth. Oliver shook his head mutely, words escaping him and the man lost what little patience he had left. His hand went to Oliver’s wrist, pulling it away from cradling his body with an almost painful jolt. Oliver struggled to try to reclaim his arm, but the man’s hold was too strong. He pushed Oliver’s sleeve back with his other hand, turning his forearm towards the light and studying the injury. Oliver stayed still, not trying to pull away anymore. When the man looked back at him again, he still hadn’t released Oliver’s wrist, although his grip had loosened. “How?” he spoke the word clearly, obviously not inviting any excuses and demanding an answer.

“It was an accident,” Oliver managed, the weak words barely stirring the air around him. His answer wasn’t satisfactory, however. The man took a minuscule step closer, forcing Oliver to press even harder against the wall if such a thing was even possible. “The window,” he said quickly. “I slipped.” The dark eyes stared into his for what felt like an eternity. Then, he stepped away, and Oliver dropped to the floor, curling in on himself.

The man walked to the window, his back to Oliver, but the boy didn’t even think to try to run. The man studied the bars and the broken glass, his hand going out to prod at it briefly. When he turned again, he didn’t look as angry as he had previously. He only glanced at Oliver for a moment, however, walking past him to the door and slamming it shut. The boy let out a long breath, his entire body was shaking.

Only a couple minutes later, the door reopened, and Oliver looked up sharply as the man approached him, this time carrying a small white box. He dropped down to a crouch next to Oliver, wordlessly setting the box down next to him and opening it, revealing various wound equipment. He reached out for Oliver’s arm again, and this time, the boy didn’t try to fight against him.

He cleaned the injury with a wet cloth that didn’t sting like the alcohol swab had previously. After that, he bandaged it, using something out of a tube that Oliver couldn’t read. “You’re fortunate it wasn’t deep enough to severe an artery, you would have bled out in a matter of minutes.” He grunted. Oliver nodded in agreement, barely registering the words. He pulled down Oliver’s sleeve, and the boy tucked his arm back against his side. The man looked up from closing the box, his hand going Oliver’s chin to tip his face up, studying the cut over his throat.

“What’s going to happen now?” Oliver asked softly. His captor dropped his hand away in reaction to the question. Oliver managed to look at him now, trying to read something in those dark eyes. “If Dad’s dead, what happens next?”

“My superiors have spoken to your mother,” the man replied. “She has agreed to continue the plan. There will be precautions taken to make sure no one gets too close to her.”

“Dad just didn’t die in an accident, did he?” Oliver asked. The man paused, not seeming willing to answer the question at first. But eventually, for one reason or another, he relented, giving a small shake of his head.

“It doesn’t seem so,” he answered quietly. He studied Oliver’s face for a moment before adding gruffly; “don’t blame yourself, kid. None of this is in your control.” Oliver almost scoffed at that and all the irony it held. The noise was heard by the man, but he didn’t comment, merely standing. He was halfway to the door when a strange thought occurred to Oliver, and almost without thinking, he blurted it out.

“Who are you, anyway?”

“You really think I’m able to tell you any information like that?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow. Oliver gave a little shrug.

“I’ve been here for at least a week now, there’s no one else around, you already probably know everything about me and it’s not like I’ll ever get the chance to tell anyone,” he rattled off dully. “I’ll probably be dead before I get the chance.”

“There’s no certainty of that,” his captor told him.

“You’re the only person I have been and will be around at least,” Oliver replied. He didn’t know why this seemed important, it just seemed as if having a name would answer some question he didn’t even fully understand.

“Don’t jeopardize your freedom,” the man answered shortly. “If you have delicate information, it’ll be too dangerous to release you.” Oliver deflated, drawing his legs up to his chest and giving up his line of questioning, it seemed obvious he wasn’t going to get a reply. But then the man spoke again. “My name’s Slade.” The door closed, and that was all he was going to tell Oliver. But it was enough to leave the boy mulling over something except the cold room.

Slade.

The name fit perfectly.


	6. Old Scars

_December 18 th_

Malcolm Merlyn had yet to show his face around the Queen Mansion, although Moira knew better than to hope he had forgotten about his earlier promise. He would show up, she knew it. After returning home from her visit with him, Moira had been startled by the person waiting for her inside her out house. Although at the same time, she knew she shouldn’t have been.

_One day earlier_

_“Mrs. Queen, you have my condolences over your husband’s death,” Amanda Waller opened with the apology, but it held no genuine feeling. “I assure you we did not intend to have any causalities.”_

_“And yet you’re threatening my son,” Moira said sarcastically. She was done with being polite, especially with these people. “And are willing to kill him should everything not go according to your plan. Isn’t that a casualty?”_

_“Robert showed intelligence in his willingness to cooperate with ARGUS,” Waller replied, not insulted. “I recommend you do the same. Unfortunately, this matter cannot be dropped, even with the passing of your husband.” Moira doubted that fact brought her any grief. “I advise you be as willing as your late husband.”_

_Late husband. It was not yet more than six hours after Robert’s death, and yet Waller spoke the label as though he had been dead for years._

_“I want to speak to my son,” Moira said decisively. Waller’s eyes narrowed. “You allowed Robert to. If you expect me to cooperate in anyway, I want proof that Oliver is alive. And unharmed.” She added forcefully._

_“Very well. I will set up a call.”_

_“No,” Moira almost interrupted her, tone firm. “I want to see him.” Just because he was able to speak didn’t mean Oliver was still alright. On top of that, voices could be recorded or mimicked. Pictures could be taken days before. She wanted concrete proof. Waller gave a terse nod. She wasn’t pleased, but she relented._

_“Very well. You will be informed of the time when it is ready. In the meantime, know that your house is under surveillance. Any attempts you make to pass information will not go unnoticed. Should anything occur, inform ARGUS immediately.”_

Moira had yet to receive any information about the call, but she was patient. She knew Waller wouldn’t forget. Rather, she knew the woman _couldn’t_. Robert might have been content with phone calls, she wasn’t.

She hadn’t touched Robert’s office, she had been too afraid to go in there least she leave some hint of her presence and rile up Malcolm. But now, she found herself drawn in that direction, steps muffled by the carpet. She pushed open the door, moving inside. The air was still, no windows were open due to the temperature outside. Robert had always made sure this was a quiet room. She paced around before settling at the desk, sitting in the tall chair. His desk was perfectly arranged, just as he always left it. Except…

She reached out to pick up the pencil, setting it back into the cup. Robert had never left pens or pencils lying about his desk. Her eyes paused on the dark surface of the wood. She could have sworn there was previously a writing pad that he kept next to his monitor. She frowned, and leaned down, intending to turn on the computer. She was stopped by the sight of a memory stick protruding from a port. Frowning, she withdrew it, turning it over to look at the tape on the underside. Written neatly in pen, there was a single word. _Oliver._ She slipped it into her pocket and stood, stepping around the desk again to look out the window.

There was a car outside of the house. Black and long, she knew instinctively who it belonged to. Even before she heard the voice behind her.

“Hello, Moira.”

She didn’t startle, turning around to face Malcolm calmly has he stepped into the room. Momentarily, he looked about, studying everything with a quick but intent look before his blue eyes swept back to her.

“I didn’t expect you to be in here,” he said quietly, walking further forward. Moira refused to be frightened by his demeanor, choosing instead to cross her arms loosely in front of her. Had he seen her remove the memory stick? She couldn’t be sure, but she hadn’t seen him standing there previously.

“I didn’t move anything if that’s what you’re suggesting,” she said blatantly. She didn’t tell him about the pencil. If someone had been in here, she just hoped they found enough to blow this whole thing into the open. Malcolm, ARGUS, and all. Malcolm stared at her face for a long moment, searching for a lie. She didn’t waver, and eventually, he looked away.

“I shouldn’t be long.”

It was a dismissal, and no matter how much Moira wanted to ignore it, and remind Malcolm he had no right to boss her about, she knew there was no reason to. She gave a stiff nod and walked past him, out of the room and into the hallway beyond. When she turned partway, moving down the hallway, she saw him sitting in Robert’s chair, turning on the computer. The sight was so wrong, she couldn’t bear to watch, and quickened her pace.

**OoOoO**

Knowing the man’s name felt…different. Even though nothing had really changed, Oliver felt as though something had. Maybe it wasn’t a good thing, but he seemed more… _human_. Instead of being a frightening, nameless figure with the power to either end or continue Oliver’s life, he was now more real. No less terrifying at times, but now that Oliver had proof his captor was not really a robot, he couldn’t help wondering other questions he never dared to ask. Like how he had gotten into this position, who he had been previously. What he had gone through.

So many questions swam through his head that Oliver often found himself just thinking about them instead of an escape or his family. He’d lay on his cot, staring up the ceiling and thinking up different answers to the questions. He doubted any of them were true, and several were so absurd he _almost_ made himself smile, that expression was still hard. Like the one about how Slade had tried to get hired in one of the _Mission Impossible_ movies, but was turned down due his terrible acting ability and after that, he struggled to find any type of job that fit the set of skills he had amassed. Oliver still didn’t know why that had given him any sort of amusement, small as it was.

 _He’ll still kill you._ Sure, Oliver knew that. He wasn’t trying to pretend everything had just gotten better. He knew that there was likely only one way all this would end, and it wouldn’t be pleasant for him. But he didn’t have any control, and at least it gave him something to do.

On top of that, it stopped him from thinking about Robert. Every time his thoughts turned to his father, he just wanted to curl up into a ball and sink into a hole. It also stopped him from thinking about the room he was locked in. Oliver had long ago surpassed his ability to stay still. He felt itchy all over, and didn’t know how he’d stay in this room for any longer. That thought successfully squashed any amusement that had previously been in his mind, and Oliver rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. He heard the door open, but didn’t look up. He had come to accept long ago that the man-that _Slade-_ could kill him whether he was facing him or not. The man crossed the room, stopping by the cot and waiting.

“Kid.”

Oliver lifted his head enough to look up the man, not bothering to shake the tips of his hair out of his eyes. It was the wrong time for a meal, and typically, the man didn’t come in at other times. While Oliver couldn’t read his expression, he didn’t look as though he had come in here to shoot him. Besides, he doubted the man would give him a warning if he had.

“Get up,” the man ordered. Oliver dragged his body into a sitting position. At his captor’s prompting, he pushed himself to his feet, following the man into the small bathroom. He was a little confused. Once again, there was a small, disposable razor by the sink. There was also a folded shirt next to it. He was a little confused, as he was already wearing a sweatshirt. He glanced at Slade, but the man merely leaned back against the door frame, nodding to the razor. Oliver followed his wordlessly prompt, cleaning up and shaving. The man’s eyes followed every movement, as though he expected Oliver to suddenly become so adept at fighting, he could turn the small razor into a deadly weapon. When he finished, setting the razor on the sink again. He turned back, looking at the man expectantly. Once again, Slade didn’t speak but nodded to the folded shirt.

Oliver unfolded it. It was plain, dark grey and made of a thick material that would be warm enough. The only main difference between the shirts he was typically given and this was the neck. This was a turtleneck, and for a moment, Oliver floundered. He wanted to ask the man why, but knowing he wouldn’t get a straight answer until as late as possible, he stripped off his shirt, folding it -though not as neatly as the other- and turning to set it aside.

As he did so, he heard a faint step, and froze in place. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed his suspicions, Slade had just stepped up behind him. He started to turn, but he felt a hand on his shoulder, and kept still. The man was studying his back with an all too focused gaze. It might have been the cold, but Oliver shivered, fighting down the need to try to wrap his arms around himself.

There was a dark, angry look in Slade eyes, and Oliver stared at him in the mirror, trying to gauge what was going through his mind. He stayed frozen in place, honesty frightened by the expression the man wore. The hand stayed on his shoulder, just a few inches above a long scar on his back one of many such stripes that discolored his otherwise fair skin. The brief touch wasn’t enough to hurt, but Oliver still flinched, not expecting the feeling. Oliver didn’t even realize he had stopped breathing, holding his breath and staring into the mirror to watch Slade’s reflection as the man studied his back. Then, abruptly, the man’s hand dropped down by his side, and Oliver let go of his breath.

It had only been a few seconds, maybe even less than half a minute, but it had felt much longer. Oliver was shaking, and he pulled on the shirt quickly, trying to avoid Slade’s eyes as the man stared at him. “What are you so eager to get back to, kid?” he asked. Oliver busied himself with making unnecessary adjustments to his shirt, giving a small shrug. He dragged his eyes upward, meeting the man’s gaze.

“No one’s trying to kill me back home,” he said.

“Sometimes murder isn’t the worst thing one can do to you,” Slade commented, and Oliver couldn’t find a reply to that. His eyes dropped again. He was grateful when the man let the matter slide. Instead, he turned to studying Oliver critically, and the boy’s relief at the lack of questions quickly faded into apprehension. Slade had never shown so much concern over his appearance before, what was going on? Slade gave a short gesture with one hand towards Oliver’s neck, not touching him, nor even coming near it. “Fix your shirt.”

Oliver glanced in the mirror. The turtleneck was partially folded down, the scabbed over cut across his neck visible, and he reached up, smoothing it. When he glanced back towards Slade, the man gave a short nod, showing his approval, he stepped back and gestured for Oliver to walk in front of him. When Oliver turned, intending to go back to the bedroom, the man stopped him, and they started instead towards the same small room of the ‘warning’.

 “What’s going on?” the boy asked. Slade had brought a small table in, setting it in front of the chair. The man didn’t answer his question immediately, instead, he gestured for Oliver to sit and the boy did so, still confused. Slade stepped out of the room, closing the door, and Oliver stayed seated, waiting for his return. It was only a few moments later when the man came back. He was carrying a black laptop and the same mask he had worn for the previous video. He set the former down on the table in front of Oliver, still closed, and stepped around the back of the chair, drawing a couple thin strips of plastic out of his pocket. He pulled Oliver’s arms behind him and secured his wrists together. He came into Oliver’s line of sight again, stepping to the other side of the table and turning the computer. He pulled the mask over his head, concealing his face before he opened the computer. He turned it to face Oliver, and the boy stared at the screen. It was currently blank, though the device was on. He looked up at Slade, waiting for an explanation.

“Your mother wanted proof of life,” the man informed him. “You have three minutes to talk to her. If you attempt to divulge any information, the call will be immediately ended and there will be consequences. Is that clear?” Oliver gave a small nod, and the man leaned over, opening a tab and typing in a few words. In the few seconds the loading took, Oliver struggled to fight down his apprehension. After several long seconds, a video slowly came into connection, and Oliver stared at his mother’s face, a mix of emotions flooding through him. Moira stilled on the other side of the call. The connection was choppy, but he could still hear her speak.

“Oliver,” he couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though there were unshed tears in her eyes. “Are you alright?” He was silently glad she was able to compose herself, he wasn’t ready for any influx of emotions, and doubted he could handle his own.

“I’m okay, Mom,” he said reassuringly. The man was standing behind the table, leaning against the far wall and out of sight of the camera.

“Have they hurt you, at all?” Moira pressed. Oliver couldn’t help himself from glancing at the man standing on the other side of the table. It explained the turtleneck, he realized suddenly, that hid the still visible slash across his neck. Securing his wrists behind him not only made sure he couldn’t grab the laptop, but also, demolished the risk of the gash on his forearm being visible. The man tipped his head fractionally in response to Oliver’s statement. The boy knew the warning he was conveying even without words.

“I’m fine. What’s going on, Mom?” Oliver asked, his voice painfully tight all of the sudden. “What did Dad get into to?” Her eyes slid away from the computer screen, and Oliver knew he wasn’t going to get an answer. His frustration mounted.

“Just stay safe,” his mother told him. “You’ll be home soon.”

“Is Thea okay?” he hadn’t heard anyone mention his sister in the time he had been there. Moira was nodding.

“She doesn’t understand what’s going on,” she told him. “But she’s fine. You will be too, Oliver.” He really wanted to believe her, he did. “I promise.” Oliver’s mind raced, knowing the three minutes he had been given was almost up, and an idea began to manifest in his mind.

“Thea would actually like it here,” he tried to make the sentence as joking as he could, the next words spilled out of his mouth so fast he only hoped she’d be able to understand them. “There’s a lot of snow but it’s a long drive over tw-” the computer snapped shut abruptly cutting off the sentence before he could finish it. He was on his feet, prepared to dash when the man unceremoniously kicked his legs out from underneath him, sending Oliver to the floor. Hands still tied behind him, Oliver couldn’t stop his fall, and landed on his stomach. Before he could roll himself over and, he felt pressure in the middle of his back, and despite all his struggles, he couldn’t escape from it.

“What did I tell you?” the words were hissed next to Oliver’s ear, anger evident. Tears stung in the boy’s eyes, but he refused to let them fall. “You had this one opportunity to speak to family, don’t expect another one.” He released the pressure on Oliver’s back, and stood, immediately, Oliver tried to stand awkwardly. The man ignored him, moving to the table and removing the laptop. He tipped the former onto its side, folding the legs in and lifting it easily. He started out the door without looking back and Oliver felt a sudden surge of fear. He remembered what had happened after the video in this room the previous time, and the man seemed angry enough to leave him here. His fear was confirmed as the man set the table outside the room and went to shut the door.

“No, please!” Oliver made a short dash towards him, causing his captor to face him squarely. The man regarded him coolly, and Oliver hurried to try to convince him. “I know I wasn’t supposed to say something, I know but please don’t leave me here.” The space was scarcely larger than a storage closet, after all, with no windows to offer light if the door was shut or the lightbulb in the ceiling was turned off.

“I made it very clear you were not to make any attempts to divulge information,” the man said, voice dangerously soft. “I made it very clear that there would be consequences in response to any attempt. I suggest you be glad the penalty isn’t worse. It was a dumb choice, kid.” The door shut abruptly, leaving Oliver in darkness, and he slid down to the floor, his arms still fastened behind him. It had been a stupid idea. Even if it _had_ worked, if he had told Moira and she understood, what could she do with the information.” He pressed his face into his knees, preparing himself for what would most likely be several hours in the frigid darkness.

He was surprised when the door opened less than five minutes later. He looked up, blinking to get his eyes used to the light as Slade stepped in, gesturing for him to stand. Oliver scrabbled to his feet, and Slade turned him far enough so that he could cut the zip ties.

For a moment, the boy thought it was the only reason he had come back, but the, Slade gave him a short, wordless push towards the door. Oliver started walking, and the man moved after him, steering him back to the bedroom. When they reached the door, Oliver stopped, confused.

“I thought you said-”

The man met his gaze evenly. “You’re already locked up here,” he said gruffly. “Your father just died. That’s punishment enough.” He gave an impatient gesture to the room and Oliver stepped in. The door shut after him and the boy battled with his uncertainty. He crossed to the cot and sat down. It was a moment before he realized he couldn’t feel the usual draft from the broken window. Looking over, he saw it had been covered in some type of plastic sheet, protection from the weather outside.

He felt guilty. He had probably worried his mother, he shouldn’t have tried that, he should have just spoken to her. Oliver drew his legs up to the bed. He didn’t know what he had been thinking. But Slade had been right, it had been a dumb idea. He just couldn’t promise himself it would be the last one he ever made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *insert screaming*  
> ...Yeah.


	7. A Small Mistake

_December 19 th_

It was a quiet day, neither of them felt up for talking. Both upset and confused about the previous day, Oliver didn’t eat or drink when Slade brought in meals, and the man didn’t force him, visibly distracted with something else. Left alone, Oliver turned back to his reading. He finished _The Odyssey_.

**OoOoO**

 “Mrs. Queen.”

Moira had hoped to get through the Queen Consolidated building without being hailed into a conversation. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. She turned to face Walter Steele as he hurried in her direction, offering a polite smile in response to the sight of him. “Mr. Steele.” She greeted him, clasping her laptop a little more tightly. His face was creased in an expression of kind concern.

“I am so sorry for your loss,” he said. “This must be a hard time for you. Please, if there is anything you or your daughter need, don’t hesitate to call.” He had been a friend of Robert’s not a particularly close one, and not one who knew anything about the undertaking, but a good friend nonetheless, they had gone through college together. Moira knew he was still shaken from the news.

“Thank you,” she said earnestly. He nodded, then stood still uncomfortably, unsure if he should add anything else. Moira quickly intercepted him before the conversation could last any longer. “I have some business to take care of, but I would appreciate if we could discuss the future of Queen Consolidated at a later time.”

“Of course,” Walter agreed immediately. “At anytime.” She smiled again, nodded to him and excused herself. She took the elevator downstairs, stepping off at the IT department and making her way past the lines of cubicles. Most of the employees were so caught up in their work, they didn’t even notice her. They were all adept and skilled, but she walked on, ignoring all of them. She didn’t slow down from her fast clip until she reached the small kitchenet, in which the only really used item was the coffee maker. Currently, a blonde stood in front of the machine, talking to herself as she tried to get it working.

“Remodel the walls but don’t touch the coffee maker, no why would we do that?” She smacked the side, and it groaned loudly, a trickle of water starting. “Ha! Take that! I graduated from MIT a year ago you really think you can outsmart me?” Moira cleared her throat, and the blonde jumped, turning around quickly, somehow managing to keep a hold on the coffee mug. Her eyes widened.

“Mrs. Queen!” Confusion was the next emotion to come into her features. “Are you lost? Or do you need something? Because usually you don’t come to this floor, or this building. I didn’t think you’d be here. Because your husband just died. I mean-” she turned red. “I am so sorry for your lost and you don’t need me rambling. Can I help you with something are you looking for someone?”

“Thank you,” Moira replied. “I was actually looking for some help with my computer. Would you mind assisting me?” The blonde looked hesitant.

“Oh, I’m actually just the intern, um, I can get someone, if you’d like,” she gestured over her shoulder, and Moira quickly cut in.

“If you don’t mind I was hoping you could help me,” she said. She couldn’t take this to the official IT department. Somehow, either Merlyn or Waller would find out. She hesitated. “You see, it’s a bit of a tricky situation concerning Robert and I’d prefer to not have the matter public. I’m afraid our employees love to gossip; I hope you’re different in that sense.” She could tell the blonde longed to say yes, from the way her eyes kept going to the computer and the way her fingers played with the mug. Being an intern held little excitement, and Moira suspected the blonde did little more than fetch coffee. She made up her mind abruptly.

“I’d love to have something to do,” she admitted, setting down the mug and starting towards the table. “I mean don’t get me wrong, I am really happy to be here but there’s also only so many cups of coffee you can carry before starting to loose it and you have _no_ idea how much coffee computer people drink.” Moira set down the laptop on the table surface, opening it and typing in the password. She turned it around to the blonde and immediately, the girl’s attention was diverted. She flexed her fingers, looking questioningly at Moira. “So what am I doing?” She asked.

“I had a video call with someone yesterday,” she started. “I need you to track the call and find where it originated from.” The blonde’s fingers froze above the keyboard and she turned suddenly nervous eyes to Moira.

“Is this legal?” She asked, surprisingly blunt. “I mean am I going to have police calling around and asking for me?”

“This may be a matter of life and death,” Moira replied, not quite answering the question. “It is a very delicate situation and if you wish to not be involved, I will still request you never speak of it to anyone.” The blonde’s eyes widened at the term ‘life or death’ but slowly, she turned back to the computer, typing in a command that drew up the application used for video calls. She was silent for a long time, only breaking her quiet to point out the time of a call the previous day.

“Is this the one?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t as if she used this method of communication often, and she barely had to consider the question. The blonde nodded, going back to her work, fingers flying over the keyboard. Absentmindedly, she chewed on the inside of her cheek, eyes moving quickly across the screen.

“This is high-level software,” she commented. “And some paranoid people. Fake IPs, VPN, there’s more distractions here than I’ve ever seen.”

“Can you get through them?” Moira asked. The blonde glanced up, fixing her glasses.

“Oh yeah.” She didn’t even look up, fingers continuing their quick pace. “But they will notice, and I don’t know exactly whose on the other end of this call, but they might move after seeing someone traced them. I’ll try to cover it up the best I can.” She added, almost as an afterthought. Moira nodded her thanks, pacing around silently as she waited. Several long minutes passed, her fingers tapped against her arm, trying to cool the rising nervousness in her stomach. “BAM!” Moira jumped, the blonde wheeling around in her chair, her expression victoriously. “Here! The call originated from the state of Maine, basically Canada, actually. It’s a rural area there’s basically nothing up there.” Moira stepped over to stare at the screen. She couldn’t understand most of the information there, but she trusted the blonde’s intuition. She offered a small smile.

“Thank you, that was far more than I hoped for, and far faster than I had anticipated.” She said, closing the computer. The blonde leaned back, obviously pleased by the gratitude and compliment.

“Well, I have done this before,” she passed off, but the happy tone in her voice was still obvious. Curiosity crept into her face as Moira straightened. “So now what?”

“I’ll try to find out more about the situation,” Moira promised. “I’m sure we’ll be able to cover it all smoothly now.” The blonde wanted to ask more questions, and she quickly sidetracked the conversation. “I am still very impressed with your skill, I think you’d be vital to the company. If you’d like, I can speak to the board and see if there’s an opening in the department.” As she had suspected, the girl’s face lit up.

“Really?” she asked, tone incredulous. Queen Consolidated had a highly competitive entry rate, and it was easier to get in as an intern than to actually secure a job. Moira didn’t feel to guilty about the offer, the blonde was obviously good with computers, after all, and from the last report she had seen, there were quite a few members of the IT department who weren’t pulling their weight.

“Of course. This isn’t bribery,” she added, seeing the girl’s expression slowly changing. “We need skilled people in the department. She shifted the computer to the table again to draw out a pen and paper. “How about you give me your name, that way I’ll remember to discuss it with the board.”

“Felicity Smoak.”

Moira scribbled down the name, tucking the pen and paper back into her pocket and collected her computer once more. “Well, thank you for your help, Felicity.” She said. She excused herself, leaving Felicity Smoak to drop her head back against the chair, spinning in a slow circle as she tried to take in everything that had just happened. Fresh out of MIT, where she had graduated from almost five years early, and here she already was in line for a job opportunity. It was almost too good to be true.

**OoOoO**

_December 20 th_

“I want to file for a search warrant.”

Pike slowly looked up at Quentin, setting down his pen with the same exaggerated care. His movements seemed a pointed gesture to just how much he didn’t want to discuss this, or be interrupted at that particular moment.

“You’re still on the Queen case,” it wasn’t really a question, but Quentin nodded anyway, and Pike continued with a quiet sigh. “You need to drop it, Lance. We have no reason to assume there is anything wrong. The son ran off, the father was in an accident, leave the remaining family alone.”

“And you don’t think it’s a little odd that that son hasn’t come back for his father’s funeral?” Quentin pressed. “Or that both those things happened within the space of a week? What if the rest of that family is in danger?”

“I will not support you in your mission to hassle a grieving family,” Pike said shortly. “This isn’t open for discussion. The only evidence you have is a picture, your daughter’s claim of a missing watch and your own suspicions. If you want any support, come back with solid evidence.”

**OoOoO**

Moira was furious. Waller had brushed off her complaint, informing her that Oliver had been aware of the terms of the call before any contact had been made. He went against the strict instructions when he had tried to pass along information of his whereabouts. She had reminded Moira that she had received the proof of life she had asked for, and now, the survival and good health of her son depended on her cooperation. She hadn’t done anything with the information she had gained from the blonde intern. Even though she now knew Oliver’s location, she had little options of how to handle the matter without harming her son.

To make matters worse, Malcolm was getting more insistent about learning who was behind Oliver’s disappearance. No matter how many times Moira told him she didn’t know had done it, he didn’t seem to believe her. She would be lucky if the rest of her family survived the next year.

**OoOoO**

_December 21 st_

“Do you do this a lot?” Oliver rolled onto his stomach, propping his chin on his folded arms and staring at Slade as the man came into the room. His captor raised an eyebrow at him in an unspoken request that he clarify his question. “Hold people captive to threaten their family.” Oliver explained. “’Cause I’d say you’re pretty fucking used to it.”

“My job has diverse tasks.”

“That’s not actually a no,” Oliver pointed out. The man shrugged, not replying to the question, and Oliver huffed, giving up hope of any reply. “What day is it?” he tried instead. He had tried to keep track, but after a while, it had simply gotten too confusing and easy to mix up the dates.

“The twenty-first.” _Only nine days_. It felt as though it had been so much longer. Once again, the realization of just how long a month could be weighed down on Oliver, and he pressed his face into the pillow, trying to think about something else. It took him several moments before he realized the significance of the date.

“It’s almost Christmas.” It was a dull statement. Christmas would have little more meaning than any other day, he already knew that. Moira had always insisted their family be together for Christmas, but really, that just meant they were all in the same house, Oliver hiding in his room, Robert stuck in his office and Thea trying to amuse herself with toys. Christmas had never been a particularly happy day for Oliver, it just meant more family time, and the more time his family spent in the same room, the more likely he was to anger one or both of his parents and get lectured or reprimanded.

“Try not to think about it,” Slade advised.

“Not like I’m missing much,” Oliver replied with a mutter. The man gave him a look, but whatever he was thinking, he didn’t voice aloud. He walked past the cot, going to check window, peeling back the paper and looking over both the bars and glass. He’d started doing that randomly, coming in and stalking around the room, looking for any sign of a possible escape route. Oliver didn’t know why, it wasn’t like he had many options.

The idea of an escape seemed little more than fantasy now, and no matter how much Oliver clung to it, held to the unlikely chance he would find some way to escape, a part of him was resigned to being held in this snowy prison. Slade turned away from the window, pacing back over to the side of the cot and gesturing for Oliver to sit up, reluctantly, the boy did so, and followed the next unspoken prompt, holding out his arm for Slade to examine. The man studied the scabbed over skin, it hadn’t bled for a while, but it still hurt anytime Oliver put even a little pressure against it. The man took his arm, turning it towards the light and studying the mark. He was always focused, Oliver reflected. No matter how mundane the action or task, he was always intent upon it, taking care of it efficiently. It was a strange, regimented attitude, a direct opposite to Oliver who tended to daydream when he had to do anything remotely boring. The longer he spent here, the most things he couldn’t help but wonder about his captor, but Slade had made it obvious that questions weren’t welcome.

He dropped Oliver’s arm again, commenting as he did so, “you’ll have a scar there, but it’s not infected, fortunately.” Oliver didn’t reply, it didn’t seem like the type of comment that needed a response. Instead he just nodded her head, folding his arms together and resting his chin on his knee.

“It’s getting colder,” he said.

“And it’ll continue to,” he said dismissively. “You’re not in Starling any more, get used to it.” Oliver frowned at him, but Slade ignored the expression, he gestured for Oliver to stand. The boy did so, and once again, the room seemed to slowly summersault about him, his head spun, and Oliver stumbled a little. Slade took a step forward, seeming to intend to grab ahold of him. To avoid that, Oliver started walking towards the door. The man followed, and they entered the hallway.

He awoke on the ground, his head pounding furiously, staring up at the ceiling, Slade leaning over him. Groggily, he tried to sit up, and Slade pushed him back down.

“What happened?” the words felt thick in his mouth, and Oliver dropped his head back to the floorboards. Slade didn’t look pleased with this particular advancement, whatever it was, and internally, he cringed a little.

“You fainted,” Slade told him tersely. He pressed a warm hand against Oliver’s forehead, looking down into his eyes with a frown. He reached for Oliver’s wrist with his other hand, two fingers pressing into the underside and waited. Oliver closed his eyes again, the pressure on his forehead was strangely comforting. Slade shook him, and Oliver cracked his eyes open, irritated. “Stay awake.” He instructed.

“ ’m tired.” Oliver muttered groggily.

“That’s a bad sign,” Slade replied. “When was the last time you ate, or drank?” With some difficultly, Oliver thought back. He didn’t remember clearly.

“The video call,” he recalled. He had drank water since then, but he didn’t remember being hungry. Maybe he had eaten since then, but if he had, it had been barely anything. Slade shook his head, muttering something.

“You lost blood, your dehydrated and haven’t eaten,” he stated. “On top of that, you hit your head off the wall.” Oliver reached up a hand to feel his head. Instead, he merely encountered Slade’s hand, and dropped his arm down again.

“ ‘nnkay,” he said. He wanted to close his eyes again. Slade stood, pulling his hand off of Oliver’s forehead and drawing the boy to his feet. Oliver swayed, feeling off balanced and suddenly weak. He took a step towards the bedroom, and his legs buckled. Slade gripped his arm tightly, steering him towards the stairs that led to the first floor. Making it down the wooden steps was tricky, Oliver clung to the banister tightly. When they finally reached the end of the stairs, Oliver let Slade steer him over to the couch, allowing him to sit down. The man moved away, and Oliver tried to stand and follow him. Slade however, pushed him down again.

“Stay.”

“Not a dog,” Oliver argued, but he sat down, either way, leaning back into the cushion and closing his eyes. It didn’t feel like long after when Slade was shaking him awake again, thrusting a glass of water into his face. Oliver took it, and drank wordlessly. When he had finished, Slade took the glass before he could drop it, replacing it with a bowl of soup instead. It was lukewarm, and Oliver ate slowly, his appetite still virtually nonexistent. Slade watched him, arms crossed, when he set aside the bowl, Oliver tried to stand, and yet again, Slade prevented him from doing so.

“Stay here,” he ordered, the command not offering room for debate. Oliver frowned at him, looking around the little living room. It was just as bare as the space upstairs, with no carpet, pictures, or bookshelves like a normal house. There was a fireplace, he noticed, and he guessed that was the only source of heat for the entire cabin. It was certainly a lot warmer here.

“Can I sleep now?” Oliver asked, he still didn't understand why Slade had brought him downstairs, but right now, he felt too tired to care, and his head pounded with every beat of his heart. The only thing he wanted to do was close his eyes and wish the pain away." Slade considered him, studying him with one of those long, sweeping looks again before he gave a tight nod.

"Fine." He passed out of Oliver's line of sight, and the boy curled onto his side resting his head on his arm. The fire crackled peacefully, and though he didn't know it, he was asleep in a matter of seconds.

 


	8. A Bit of the Truth

It felt like barely a few minutes later when Oliver was shaken awake. He tried to roll over and ignore it, but his assailant wouldn’t give up. Finally, Oliver opened his eyes and sat up partly. He noticed Slade was holding a blanket, but when Oliver reached out for it, he pulled it back.

“What’s your name?” He asked, and Oliver frowned at him.

“You know that.” He argued. He was tired, his head still throbbed dully and he wanted nothing more but to go back to sleep. Slade looked unsatisfied with that response.

“Just answer the question,” he ordered. Oliver would have rolled his eyes had he not been afraid it might make his headache worse. “What is your name?”

“Oliver Queen,” Oliver muttered and Slade nodded, studying him.

“Who am I?” he continued the seemingly obvious questions, and this time, Oliver bit back the sarcastic response _how should I know_.

“You’re Slade.” The simple response seemed enough, but Slade didn’t let up on his strain of questions.

“Where are we?” He asked. By now, Oliver assumed he was following some sort of list, although he doubted such a list had been created with such situations in consideration.

“I don’t know, somewhere in the woods,” he muttered, tone decidedly petulant now. “Away from Starling, you didn’t tell me.” Slade set down the blanket, revealing a pillow bundled underneath next to Oliver.

“How does your head feel?” he asked, eyes flickering between Oliver’s. The boy shrugged, leaning back into the couch again.

“It still hurts.” Oliver found himself looking around the room. He hadn’t really processed his location earlier, and now, he was confused, frowning up at Slade who seemed finally convinced, and had just turned away. “Why am I down here?”

“So I can monitor you,” Slade replied shortly, not looking back. “Go back to sleep, kid.” Oliver considered arguing. But he was still tired, his head still throbbed, and he didn’t feel up for arguing. Slade was closed his eyes, and it wasn’t long until he was asleep again.

Slade shook him awake later. And again, after that. By the fifth time, Oliver was waspish and wanted nothing more than to go back to the bedroom and be shut in alone. He answered the same questions shortly, turning over halfway through his last answer and burrowing into the couch. The novelty of being downstairs had long since worn off.

Slade didn’t wake him up again. Instead, Oliver awoke much later, jerked awake by the shapeless horrors of his sleep, when darkness pressed in on the windows from outside, and the fire was the only source of light in the room. His body shook furiously, and he instinctively pressed his face to the pillow, stifling his gasps to drag air into his body. It was several long minutes before he felt in control once again. Sitting up, he saw the gleam of artificial light from the kitchen. It was utterly quiet, and he pushed the blanket aside, standing. He started towards the kitchen, curiosity leading him across the cold floor boards. Slade looked up as he entered, lowered the phone. Oliver tried not to think about what he might have been speaking about. Something about the man’s posture, the way he straightened, facing Oliver, expression demanding an explanation, made the boy suddenly hesitate, and consider going back to the couch.

“What is it?” Slade asked when Oliver didn’t speak. The boy shook his head, turning around to leave again. A glance at the window told him it was snowing yet again. He hated those white flakes, hated the cold, hated this cabin, hated Slade. Did he? He couldn’t put as much conviction in the final sentiment. Of all the people he had ever known, Slade was not the worse by far. He curled up on the couch, not daring to go back to sleep, but pulling the blanket over himself anyway. The fire danced in hypnotic rhythms, and Oliver stared into distractedly. The quiet minutes crawled past. The silence was almost peaceful after the hassle of what his life had used to been.

He couldn’t stay still for long, and Oliver started up, moving out of the room to explore the rest of the cabin. He saw Slade look up again, but from the way he turned back to his reading, Oliver assumed he was allowed to walk about. There wasn’t much to the cabin he hadn’t already seen. On the floor level, he found only a closet and locked door he could only assume led to a basement. He wandered upstairs, turning to go in the direction opposite of his bedroom. There was another door at the far end of the hallway, but this was locked as well.

He didn’t try to break in.

When Oliver came downstairs once again, the tablet was gone, and Slade was regarded him steadily, watching the boy walk across the kitchen. The front door was still locked, and Oliver knew even if he could pick a lock, Slade could stop him before he managed to turn the knob.

“Don’t make me regret giving you more space,” Slade said warningly, and Oliver barely restrained from rolling his eyes.

“Yeah right,” he muttered, more to himself. He didn’t see his captor’s expression, but Slade stood, and when Oliver looked towards him, he nodded towards the table.

“Sit down.” The two words were a curt order, and Oliver’s legs moved almost automatically, carrying him to a chair. He sat down, a little uncertain, watching Slade procure the white box from a cupboard. As his captor stepped up next to him, he gestured towards Oliver’s arm. “Pull your sleeve up.” The boy obeyed, pulling back the material to leave the ugly scab visible. It was healing, but it was a slow process, and the wound didn’t seem happy about it.

Slade went through a confusing process of cleaning, wiping, bandaging, and whatever else before allowing Oliver to reclaim his arm. He did so slowly, pulling it back to himself and tugging the sleeve down. He watched Slade stand up and move away. Not for the first time, he reflected on the natural grace the man moved with, athleticism and strength obvious in his every movement.

“So where _are_ you from?” Oliver asked abruptly. Slade frowned at him, brow lowering and the boy dropped his gaze. He heard a resigned sigh and when he looked up, Slade’s expression had softened, his glare replaced by exasperation.

“I’ve told you before, kid, don’t ask questions.”

Oliver wanted to argue, he drew in the breath to do so, but he saw the tension in Slade’s form, and knew immediately that something was off. He closed his lips without a word, studying the worn wood of the table.

**OoOoO**

_December 22 nd_

Quentin hadn’t managed to receive the warrant. He was furious, more at himself than anyone else. Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. It was ten at night and he hadn’t slept for god knew how long. Every lead he thought he had turned into a dead end, and on top of that, Pike had informed him he was one visit to the Queen Mansion away from a restraining order.

He slumped in his leather chair, staring at the computer screen that was just beginning to blur. Dinah had sent him several texts, asking him to come home for the night, knowing he wasn’t on patrol. Lance had made a generic excuse, but he knew she saw straight through it. He stood, despairing at his attempts and collecting his coat from the back of his chair. He stepped out into the cold air. A few, lonely snowflakes drifted down lazily. Starling never had much snow, especially this early in winter. Christmas was only three days away, and Quentin could barely thing about it. He started towards his car, hands in his pockets. The city lights lit up the grey world in strange neon hues about him. He had scarcely reached the cruiser when his pager went off, and turning to his comms, he listened to the report. A 10-23 at Queen Consolidated. A break in, in progress. Hilton was there in a second, actually assigned to patrol that night unlike Lance. Quentin was speeding down the road before the report had even finished.

He was the first on the scene, joined quickly by several other cruisers. They were met by security, the man fairly babbling about what he had seen. SCPD swarmed into the building, moving in well-practiced maneuvers. Most of security had left the building, but there were still a few standing about, nervously jumping at shadows. There had been no casualties, nothing stolen. It didn’t make sense. There was no sign of those who had forced their way in. Hilton walked with him and the two of them went to the lower levels, clearing each room before they entered.

The building was mostly dark with only a few lights left on. The further they went, the darker it seemed to get until they were forced to pull out their torches. Suddenly, from the left, there was a crash, and both of them snapped around, aiming their pistols. Quentin barely caught sight of the darkly clad figure behind the young blonde before they shoved the woman at the detectives, vanishing in what seemed like the next second. Hilton dropped his gun, rushing forward to help the girl up, she was badly shaken and pale.

“It’s alright, ma’am,” he said reassuringly. Quentin circled around them, scanning for the figure in black, there was no sign of them. He looked back towards the blonde who was still sitting on the ground, Lucas on one knee next to her.

“You have any idea who they were?” Quentin asked her. The girl shook her head, blue eyes still wide from fear.

“I-I don’t know,” she stammered, looking between Lucas and Quentin. “He just appeared and-and started asking about the computers and-and-” she shook her head, words seeming to fail. The two detectives exchanged a look.

“Let’s get you upstairs,” Hilton said kindly. He helped the girl up, and she went willingly. Quentin trailed after them. He couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched, and felt as though a target had just been painted on his back.

 

When they came back into the night air, more people had arrived at the scene. One, Oliver recognized as Walter Steele, the acting CEO of the company. He was speaking to one of the SCPD officers, sparing concerned glances at the building at the few people who had been taken out.

“Do you have any idea what this might have been about?” The officer was asking. Walter shook his head, showing no sign of dishonesty.

“I’m afraid not, officer,” he replied, sounding genuinely apologetic. Quentin, after checking to make sure the girl was fine, made his way over. Judging from the unwelcoming look Steele gave him, the CEO recognized him as the detective who had been badgering the Queen family. He had interviewed the man after Robert’s death after all, Steele had no reason to like him. Quentin didn’t have time to care.

“Detective,” he greeted, somewhat coldly. “I thought you were removed from any investigations concerning the Queen’s family.” Short, to the point, Quentin appreciated that. He could work with cold and honest.

“Have you spoken to Mrs. Queen lately?” Lance asked, skipping formalities. He could see the immediate barriers rising in Steele’s eyes as the conversation took that questionable turn. He was a close friend of the family, or at least, he considered himself one.

“I am aware of your obsession with this case, Detective,” he replied. “As well as the grief you’ve caused the woman who recently lost her husband.”

“And she might lose her son as well if we’re not careful,” Quentin snapped. Steele was taken aback by his tone. “All the evidence points to abduction; this just adds to the case.” The officer stood by awkwardly.

“I will not hesitate to speak to your superior officer,” Steele came back. The conversation was turning ugly, but before it could get worse, Hilton was running up to them. All traces of his usual good humor was gone.

“There’s something you need to see,” he addressed both of them, and they followed him a few steps towards the building. Queen Consolidated had a massive screen mounted above the doors, not unlike those seen in Time’s Square. Usually blank, it was now portraying a message, and judging from the way she spoke, Moira Queen was broadcasting live across multiple channels.

“I have spent too long in silence, and too many have suffered because of it. Now, I am speaking the truth, and I beg you to believe me. I can confirm that my husband, Robert Queen, was murdered. The car accident was arranged by Malcolm Merlyn. He did this because Robert was prepared to betray the plan that Malcolm arranged; a plan to level all of the Glades.” Shocked murmurs ran through the slowly growing crowd. “He has employed multiple allies by use of coercion, threats, and violence, and he will not stop until his goal is achieved. I am ashamed to admit that I have been a pawn in this mission, my children are threatened to assure my loyalty. Malcolm is not yet prepared to unleash this destruction, but it will only be a matter of time before he is.”

The message cut out abruptly, and distantly, Quentin could hear sirens. Going to the Queen Mansion, to the Merlyn Manor. This new advancement left them all shocked and speechless. Steele stood dumbfounded, so lost that Quentin knew without any doubt he was innocent in this plot. He turned towards Lance, and his voice dropped several octaves, stepping forward.

“Do you think you can find Oliver before they hurt him?” Hurt, or kill. But Quentin knew he couldn’t bring himself to utter the second word allowed. He nodded to the man steadily.

“I think I can do my best,” he replied shortly.

“I’ll give you whatever you need,” Steele offered, but Quentin was already shaking his head. He didn’t need funds, and now, he didn’t care to need permission. He looked towards Hilton who gave him one small nod, understanding the gesture.

“Cooperate with SCPD to stop this attack Merlyn’s planning,” Quentin told him shortly. “We’ll find Oliver.” He and Lucas started back to the cruiser pace clipped. “We need to stop by the precinct, I’ll talk to Pike.”

“He won’t be enthusiastic about us leaving while all this is going down,” Hilton pointed out. “Especially when we don’t even know where the hell we’re going.”

“Um, excuse me.”

They both turned, conversation dropping as they saw the same young blonde, they had brought out earlier. She was wrapped in a grey blanket, obviously provided by an officer who had seen she was missing a coat. She still looked shaken, her face pale, but there was a determined set to the nervousness.

“You should be free to go,” Lucas told her, voice immediately going to his professional ‘calming tone’. “Just make sure you check with an officer and-”

“I know where he is,” the five words rushed out of her, tumbling over one another in their haste to get out in the open before she lost her nerve. Both detectives were struck silent. “Oliver Queen, I know where he is.” Quentin opened his mouth to ask the obvious question and she answered it before he got it out. “Moira came into the IT department two days ago and asked me to trace a video call from across the country.”

“How do you know it was Oliver?” Quentin asked.

“She said it was a matter of life and death, and asked me not to speak about it,” she said fretfully, and her nervousness made sudden sense. “The call originated from the state of Maine near the Canadian border.”

“Do you have an exact location?” Hilton had barely asked the words before she was pulling out the slip of paper. Quentin took it, looking down at the longitude and latitude scribbled down. He was impressed.

“I wrote it down, it just…something seemed wrong I didn’t feel right just walking away.” She was trying to reason her actions, and Quentin quickly waved aside her guilt.

“You did a good thing, you just might have saved a life,” he said reassuringly, and he saw the relief in her eyes. “Thank you.” They turned away, but she blurted out before they could take another step.

“There’s one more thing!” When they turned around, her expression was very serious. “I think they’re watching the airlines. They know I traced it, that’s why the man broke in today, he wanted to know if I had the exact location. They knew exactly who I was.”

“Thank you,” Quentin repeated, nodding to her. “But stay out of it, we’ll take care of it now.” She looked immensely relieved at that, and started away. Hilton went to the cruiser, and Quentin followed after him. Steele stopped him, holding out something to him subtly. The detective hesitated before taking, guessing what it was.

“It’s a long drive, Detective, this is a serious matter and it’s the least I can do to make sure you get there.” He looked so determined that Lance didn’t try to argue, accepting the money. He nodded to the CEO and stepped into the cruiser.

“I’ll drop you at your place and pick you up in about twenty minutes,” Hilton told him. Quentin nodded. They both had families, saying goodbye three days before Christmas was the last thing either of them wanted to do, but there was nothing else for it. They had to find Oliver before it was too late. He looked down at the note, reminding himself

**OoOoO**

“Wake up.” There was no subtly in the roughness with which Oliver was shaken into consciousness. He sat up, feeling the urgency from Slade and instinctively went to stand. Slade reached out, taking hold of Oliver’s arm and leading him up the stairs. It seemed like a bad time to try to argue, and so, Oliver simply followed his ques. He stepped into the small bathroom, closing the door and taking a moment to splash water over his face.

By the time he finished and opened the door, Slade had already returned from some other room. He was holding a plain, black duffle in one hand, and a coat. The latter, he tossed to the ground, next to a pair of boots, and nodded to both. “Get dressed.”

“What’s going on?” Oliver questioned. Slade’s dark expression didn’t offer any response, and he dropped down to pull on the boots. He picked up the coat, which truthfully was more like a woolen jacket, and shrugged it on. It was green and vaguely military in style. Oliver looked down at it and didn’t notice that Slade was holding out something else to him. He looked up, taking the winter hat and pulling it over his head. Slade set down the duffle, reaching out and taking one of Oliver’s wrists. The boy flinched at the surprisingly hard grip.

“We’re leaving,” Slade said shortly, taking his other wrist and binding them together with a strip of plastic. Oliver stared at him, the words sounded foreign.

“Where to? Back home?” he asked, a surge of hope going through him. He should have known better. Slade took ahold of his arm again, collected the duffle with his free hand.

“No.”

They walked through the now dark cabin. The light had all been shut off, the fire extinguished. When they reached the door, Slade set down the bag to undo the locks, using a key on the padlock. He opened the door, and a blast of cold air hit them. Oliver shuddered. The jacket seemed little help against the frigid temperatures. Small particles of snow slipped into the collar of his jacket, melting against his skin.

They stepped outside. Slade shut the door and lead him forward. There was a shoveled path, but snow had already collected on it. The heavy flakes drifted down slowly from the tar black sky. They walked to the small lean to that seemed to act as a garage for the car parked inside of it. Slade opened the passenger side, and pushed Oliver towards it. There was an abrupt urgency in his movements, and the boy didn’t try to fight back. The bitter cold was even worse than he had anticipated. He stepped into the car, and Slade secured his wrists to the door with another plastic zip tie, shutting it.

The inside of the car wasn’t much warmer than outside, and a shiver passed through Oliver as he sat still, waiting. He heard Slade toss the duffle back into the trunk, then walk around to the other side of the car, stepping into the driver’s seat. He started the car, the headlights stabbing through the darkness. Slowly the car rolled into the street, turning away from the cabin to follow the cleared path. Oliver stared into the surrounding darkness, taken aback by the sudden advancement.

“Why are we leaving?” The interior of the car felt small and cramped, especially with the oppressive darkness just outside the glass. The car’s headlights reflected off of the falling snow, casting a bizarre glare on the world around them.

“Someone tracked the video call.” Slade didn’t even look at him when he spoke, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. _Someone_. Oliver felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Someone working for your mother. She recently released sensitive information to the public.” Oliver stared at the dark glass without really seeing it. He already knew that whatever faceless group that was behind all this didn’t handle calmly to his parents going against the agreement. If his mother knew where they were, would killing Oliver become easier than using him as a hostage. He glanced at Slade, but the man’s eyes were still straight ahead.

“What’s going to happen?” he didn’t sound that frightened when he asked the question, and Oliver mentally applauded himself for that. Somehow, he kept his voice from cracking. Slade, as he always did, seemed to know what he meant.

“You’re not dead yet, kid.” Despite the _yet_ in the sentence, the words still carried relief, and Oliver’s shoulder slumped fractionally. He had just been about to beat himself up for going with Slade so willingly. For a long minute, Slade didn’t say anything else, then he added, quietly, honestly. “And I’ll try to make sure it stays that way.” The words should have brought reassurance. But what could he do? If Slade’s superiors ordered him to kill Oliver, he would, wouldn’t he?


	9. Travel in Silence

They took turns at the wheel, one detective driving, the other sleeping the best he could in the cramped space. It hadn’t taken them long to get out of Starling, Pike had dismissed the both of them from work as soon as they had walked into his office. The goodbyes had been a little harder. Quentin stared at the dark road ahead, his mind replaying the conversation he had with Dinah some hours earlier.

_“I’m sorry to run off,” Quentin had just managed to shove the last shirt into his bag, zipping it shut quickly and turning to his wife as he spoke. “Especially around Christmas. I know the timing’ is shit and all-”_

_“Quentin I’d expect nothing else,” Dinah cut in before he could finish. “The boy’s in danger, you wouldn’t be the man I married if you just ignored that.” A small smirk hovered around her lips. “I think that’s what brought us together, remember?” She gave him a hug, holding on for a second longer than usual. “Be careful, Quentin. Whatever’s going on, it’s dangerous. Make sure you come back home.” She followed him into the kitchen._

_“I will,” Quentin promised her. “We’ll find the kid, shut this whole thing down. SCPD will corner Merlyn and put a stop to his plan, it’ll all work out, you’ll see.” She raised an eyebrow at his reassurance. Blind optimism had never been Dinah’s thing, and he knew she didn’t want him to lie to just make her feel better. The truth was, Quentin was trying to lie to himself, hoping he could chance away the dark thoughts swirling about his head. Sara and Laurel, still half asleep, traipsed into the kitchen, having heard the ruckus._

_“What’s going on?” Laurel asked, tucking her robe a little further around herself. Sara’s eyes went immediately to the duffel in Quentin’s hand._

_“Dad, are you going somewhere?” Neither of them would have seen the broadcasted special that Moira had put out across the city. Glancing at the clock, Quentin saw he still had a few minutes until Lucas would arrive, he faced them._

_“We found out more about the Queen case,” he answered honestly. “Malcolm Merlyn has been accused of terrorist actions, and it’s become evident that Oliver was abducted to be used as blackmail against his parents.” The horror on both of their faces was instantaneous. “I’m going to be gone a few days, we have a location, Detective Hilton and I are going to go find Oliver and bring him back.”_

_“But it’s dangerous, if someone took him, they’ll be there to,” Laurel’s brown eyes were wide with concern. Dinah stepped in._

_“Your father’s job can be difficult, that doesn’t change his commitment to it,” she reminded both girls gently. A car honked outside._

_“That’s Hilton,” Quentin lifted the bag onto his shoulder, reaching out to both his daughters and pulling them into a hug. They returned the embrace, and he kissed them both atop the head. Stepping away, he said one last goodbye to his wife. “You all take care of each other; I’ll be back soon.” He looked at Laurel. “And Oliver will be too, you’re going to have to help him readjust.”_

Hilton grumbled to himself, unable to get comfortable in the passenger’s seat, and seeming to give up on trying to sleep. They had both been quick to leave, ready to face whatever it was head-on, but now, Quentin had doubts. What were they running into?

**OoOoO**

_December 23 rd_

Oliver didn’t sleep, his mind far too active to slip into that quiet void. He stared out the window, but there wasn’t much to look at. He didn’t feel up for trying to talk to Slade, and judging from the stony silence the other man sat in, he doubted Slade was in a conversational mood. Despite himself, the silence, and rhythm of the car eventually lulled him into a fit full sleep. He fidgeted, sometimes shaking himself awake. Whenever that happened, he would struggle with wakefulness for some moments before his tired eyes won, and he drifted off again.

It was hours later when the first light of the sun touched over the white coated trees, signifying dawn. The car stopped for the first time in hours, and Oliver stirred, dragging himself out of the wasteland of sleep. He blinked blearily, staring about as Slade cut the plastic ties on his wrists. It wasn’t snowing, but the sky was grey, covered with featureless clouds. There was a small building not far away from them, advertising prices and merchandise. He looked towards Slade questioningly.

“Why are we here?” he asked. Without knowing exactly what they were doing here, Oliver didn’t know whether he should be happy or nervous about it. Slade opened the car door, and a wave of cold assaulted Oliver’s body. The boy shivered, huddling into his coat.

“Cars run out of gas eventually,” his captor replied shortly. _Oh_. It was the most obvious answer, just looking out the window, Oliver could see the station on the driver’s side of the car. Slade gestured for him to get out, and Oliver did so, hating the cold he stepped into. A bell rung as Slade pulled open the single glass door. They stepped into the small store, crammed with shelves of various merchandise designed to catch the eye of a traveler. A young woman stood behind the counter, probably around Oliver’s age. Her forearms rested on the counter in front of her, hands holding a phone that her eyes were fixed on. Her curly, boy-cut hair was stained electric blue, a couple of strands of bangs falling over her face. She glanced up at them briefly, but as they didn’t immediately approach, her attention went away again. Slade steered Oliver towards the bathrooms in the back of the store. Oliver’s heart rate had picked up. It was his first real chance to escape. If he could just let the cashier know what was going on, without Slade noticing, she could call the police. Slade couldn’t afford to make a scene here, right? What if he tried to run?

Oliver forced himself to walk quietly into the bathroom, locking himself in one of the two stalls. There were no windows in here, and the only light came from a weak, fluorescent bulb hanging from the ceiling. His hands shook, and he tried to still them. If Slade saw, he might guess Oliver was planning something. When they exited the bathroom, Oliver’s eyes slid around the shop. There was a second door, on the opposite wall of the one they had entered. If he got out and started running, Slade couldn’t risk chasing after him without drawing attention. His captor wasn’t holding onto his arm, and Oliver glanced back at him, following his unspoken instruction as Slade gestured towards the counter. He walked towards it, trying to keep himself from looking at the door. They were halfway to the counter, but only five feet away from the exit, and Oliver abruptly changed his path, stepping sideways and speeding up. He made it only a few feet before Slade caught him, hand grabbing Oliver’s bicep tightly. He turned towards the older man, intending to kick at his shins, but Slade pulled him off balance expertly just as he had moved his leg, and Oliver stumbled. He might have fallen had Slade not righted him. Without releasing Oliver, he moved towards the counter, only letting go when they stood in front of the cash register.

The girl looked up, her eyes going from Oliver to Slade and then back to Oliver again. There was a suspicious look, and she studied Oliver intently. Slade drew her attention again as he started speaking, ordering gas to the station they had parked by. Slowly, the girl typed in the order, her eyes going to the screen. 

“Can I help you with anything else?” she asked, her gaze directed to Oliver. He was content to let Slade answer but after a moment of silence, the older man nudged him discreetly under the counter. Surprised, Oliver barely stopped himself from glancing at Slade. He smiled at her.

“No, that’s everything, thank you.” He assumed it was the right answer, and now, the surprise gone, Oliver realized the reason behind Slade letting him talk. The girl seemed to relax a little, printing the receipt and holding it out to them.

“Have a good day,” she said, there was still a note of cautiousness in her manner and she watched them leave. Slade walked fractionally behind Oliver as they returned to the car. The snow crunched loudly underfoot, and with each step, Oliver knew his chances of escaping were growing slimmer. But now they were out in the open, what happened if he started running? He wouldn’t put it past Slade to just shoot him with some weapon that Oliver knew had to be hidden on his body. They reached the care, and Oliver obeyed his captor’s faint gesture, opening the passenger side and stepping into the car. He shut the door forcefully, suddenly plunged into a bizarre silence. He stared out of the windshield. Slade had said he would try to keep Oliver alive, but what did that really mean? He heard a faint clunk and looked over, seeing the man standing by the gas tank, back to the car.

He released a long breath, the air whispering in the silent interior of the car. It felt like an hour before Slade opened the driver’s side door. The interior was little warmer than outside now, and when Slade first started the ignition, cold air blasted out of the vents. Oliver shivered. He stared out the window, in the store, he could see the girl working the cash register looking out the window, watching their car. Their eyes met, and Oliver could read the concern in her face. Slade was still watching the road as he pulled away from the gas tank. If he could just let her know he needed help, maybe he had a chance…

“You know what happens if you try that.” Oliver hadn’t spoken aloud, but Slade still seemed to sense what he was thinking. Startled by the sudden words, Oliver turned his gaze straight ahead. There was nothing but the road in front of them, and as they pulled out onto it, he couldn't stop himself from glancing quickly into the mirror. What had she seen? He wondered. It couldn’t have looked normal, especially after he had tried to dash towards the door. But then again, people didn’t care about things like that. They saw something wrong, and typically, they’d look away again, or try to make it seem they didn’t see anything.

They had driven for some time before Oliver spoke, phrasing the question that had been on his mind for some time.

“Have they said anything?” Oliver’s voice was quiet, and even though he didn’t clarify who he meant by the pronoun, Slade seemed to guess who it was. He glanced at Oliver briefly, once again, seeming to weigh the question carefully.

“Nothing you need to know.” He replied shortly. It didn’t answer Oliver’s question. The boy put his head back against the rest, knowing there was little else to do. Maybe who ever tracked the call would still find them. Maybe they’d keep moving. Maybe the cooperation behind it would simply decide that it wasn’t worth keeping Oliver alive. One more ‘maybe’ and Oliver would scream. He shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable in the little car. However, no matter how much he turned, moved his legs or pressed his arms into the rest, he couldn’t relax. Slade seemed fixated on ignoring him, and Oliver barely managed another few minutes of silence before he broke.

“Do you have a family?” He saw the cautious glance Slade made in his direction, and really, he didn’t expect anything but a sarcastic or short answer, Oliver was just sick of the silence. He hated quiet, and the days they had spent in it didn’t change that dislike at all. Slade response gave him just as much of a reply as Oliver had expected.

“I’m not answering that.” Flat, disinterested, it was everything the boy had grown used to. He didn’t let the conversation die.

“I was just wondering,” he muttered, tucking his legs to his side.

“Well don’t.” Slade reprimanded sharply. It was a harsher response than what Oliver had anticipated. He let his head fall against the window, the rough road made it uncomfortable, the constant bumps and dips rocking his head off the glass by a fraction. “There’s only a few hours left now, be patient.” Oliver lifted his head.

“Hours until what?” he asked. “Where are we going?”

“A safe house.”

**OoOoO**

 “You think about what we might find?” They had switched multiple times before daybreak. Now, with the sun fully risen and the gas tank running low, Hilton was driving. The suddenness of hearing his voice after such a long period of silence startled Quentin, and it took him a moment to actually process what he had said. It was a grim thought. “Kid might not even be alive, Lance. If someone was using him as blackmail, his mother’s confession might have forced their hand.” He spoke as if those fears hadn’t already ran through Quentin’s mind, as if every horrible ending hadn’t played in his thoughts as he stared out at the bleak road ahead.

“Yeah, I know.” How had everything gone to hell so fast? One minute, the idea of an abduction was just a theory, the next, it was all too real, the city was in immediate danger, and they were already hours away from it. He had dealt with shit before, but this was on a whole new level. Merlyn planning on blowing up half a city…Quentin tried to shake away the thoughts. They had their job, that was what he needed to focus on.

“What about if we do find him?” that, that was easier to focus on, to think about and plan. It was the optimistic approach. “He won’t be able to go back with his mother, and there’s no telling how messed up he’ll be after all this.” Maybe it wasn’t easier to think about. Quentin shook his head.

“We don’t know what we’ll find,” he replied. “We can figure out our next move once we’ve found him.” _Or his body._ His didn’t say the morbid thought aloud, but that didn’t stop a nasty voice from chiming up from one corner of his mind. A sign for a rest stop ahead offered a welcome change of topic. “We need some gas. I’ll fill up the tank if you grab us some breakfast.”

**OoOoO**

Slade hadn’t been lying, it was barely two hours (and several many random turns later) when they turned down a much narrower road. The previous street they had been on was little wider, but here, the car could barely squeeze through. It was very dark, although still day, black clouds had swept in, and snow was beginning to fall, slowly thickening. Oliver straightened in his seat, looking about as the car pulled into a little clearing. The building was even smaller than the previous cabin; it was one level, the wood gray and faded with age. Slade had already opened his door, and Oliver hurried to follow suit. He hunched his shoulders against the bitter air as his captor stepped around the vehicle, taking ahold of his arm and leading him towards the cabin.

Slade’s eyes constantly moved, scanning their surroundings. He seemed on edge, and Oliver stayed quiet. Slade opened the cabin door, and they stepped into the dark interior. When he flicked the switch, the cabin was lit up dimly, and Oliver was able to properly look around. It was nondescript; a single main room with a loft that seemed to hold a sleeping area and a bathroom through a small doorway. The smaller space would make it difficult to try to make any type of escape. The door was still open. They hadn’t driven past any houses lately, but Oliver knew he wouldn’t get another chance.

There was a small table in the middle of the room, the nearest chair just within arm’s reach. Slade turned fractionally, intending to close the door, and Oliver quickly moved. He twisted his arm sharply, breaking the loose grip Slade had on it. When his captor wheeled around to retaliate, Oliver kicked the chair into him and sprinted into the outside. The driveway hadn’t been plowed recently, and he immediately sunk up to his calves. Oliver forced his way on, running towards the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shit short chapter that has yet to be edited and had a way too long writing time...agh.


	10. Blood in the Snow

The air was bitterly cold, and it cut into his lungs like knives, his pants were soaked in a matter of seconds. Oliver gasped for oxygen, he could hear Slade behind him and knew immediately he wouldn’t be able to outrun the man. He changed his direction, diving around the front of the car to yank open the driver’s side door. He had seen Slade pocket the keys, but that wasn’t what he was looking for. His hands scrabbled underneath the seat, remembering the object he had seen a glint of so many hours previously. His hands closed on the cold black metal of the gun and he yanked it upward to aim the weapon at Slade.

Understandably, it halted the man, but Oliver could see no sign of fear in those dark eyes. Maybe there was wariness, it was too hard to tell. He knew very little about guns, yet Oliver felt sure he could fire off at least one shot if he tried. His fingers fumbled with the safety lever, flipping it off. His hands were shaking, no matter how much Oliver tried to still them, they still betrayed him.

“Put it down, kid, you’re not going to shoot me,” it was more a rebuke than anything else, but Oliver refused to let the weapon fall. He let out a tight breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, fighting down the shudder that tried to rack his body. It was unbelievably cold, a deep, punishing temperature that seemed to hate the very idea of anything surviving in its claws.

“Who says I won’t?” He challenged, lifting his chin a little higher. At least his voice was steady, although how, Oliver didn’t even know. Blood roared in his ears, and his heart had clambered into his throat, threatening to choke him. Slade sighed; annoyance obvious in the sound.

“Get over yourself, put down the gun, don’t make this worse for yourself.”

Oliver squared his feet, rolling his shoulders back, trying to loosen the tension in them. The gun wavered as his hands shook, but he kept it up, refusing to show even a hint of hesitation. “I’m not going to just-” Slade moved while he was still speaking, startling the boy into stumbling back. The man was halfway around the car when pure survival instinct registered in Oliver’s mind and his finger tightened on the trigger.

The shot was impossibly loud, momentarily deafening him. The aftershock of the shot ripped through Oliver’s arm, and his shoulder jarred backwards, the shock forcing him to drop the weapon. He stumbled backwards through the snow, away from the smoking gun, from the car, from _Slade_. The man was standing, his body twisted viciously under the impact of the bullet. There was blood melting snow around him, blood dripping from the open hole in his shoulder.

 It was a mix of horror and shock that made Oliver freeze, one hand covering his mouth to stop any sound from making it out. He should run, a little voice screamed at him to do it. Run now before Slade could recover. But though he thought it, his legs were unable to move. Then, Slade was moving towards him, and the brief paralysis was gone. Oliver ran. He was away from the car in a few long steps, the snow dragging him back. He made the mistake of looking back, fearful that Slade was too close, and his feet tangled in a branch hidden under the snow. He threw out his arms to break his fall, but it was already enough. He turned as he landed, scrabbling back and kicking out at Slade.

The man evaded his attack, and as Oliver bounded to his feet, he caught the arm the boy threw in a wild punch. There was very little grace in the retaliation, the vicious twist and sweep that sent Oliver sprawling in the snow once again, his arm pinned behind him. He struggled, but the most it did was wrench his shoulder painfully. Shivers wrecked him, and Oliver twisted his face to the side, dragging in air. The grip wasn’t lessened, and he fought back, snaking his arm around again and throwing his weight to one side. He rolled free but knew immediately he couldn’t get out. Even as he rose to his feet, still in a cautious crouch. Slade stared down at him, the white flakes catching on his beard and clothes. The anger Oliver expected to see wasn’t there.

“You could have killed me,” the words were blunt, factual, not an accusation. “Next time, aim for the head.”

“I didn’t want to.” It was a whisper, barely audible around the falling snow. Slade cocked his head to one side, unapologetic. His next words were empty, and when Oliver would think back on them, horribly prophetic.

“Then you’ll never last a minute.”

At that moment, Oliver heard the first few shots, just as Slade fell to the ground.

**OoOoO**

Quentin snapped awake, momentarily thrashing in his seat before he remembered where he was. He sat upright, trying to calm his labored breathing. Hilton glanced at him, not admitting to the concern in his face.

“Didn’t think my driving was that bad,” he commented instead. Quentin stared ahead at the road, shaking off the residue of the dream. He looked at the GPS, staring at the arrival time. It was moving impossibly slow, and if he didn’t know better, Quentin might have accused Hilton of rigging it. He rubbed his face.

“We’re not going to make it, Lucas.” He said honestly. The words hung in the empty air, and Hilton couldn’t seem to bring himself to correct his friend. Over a day of driving and they still had almost fifteen hours left. They wouldn’t make it.

**OoOoO**

Oliver dropped flat, dragging himself back to the car. He couldn’t take his eyes of Slade, the man was moving, following him to the shelter of the vehicle. How badly he was hurt, it was impossible to tell. Oliver didn’t know what he was hoping for, anyway. If Slade died now, he would to, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t last a minute against the shooters. But if they got out, if Slade survived, that how much longer would Oliver himself last? Bullets ripped through the clearing around them, and Slade shoved Oliver under the car unceremoniously. The young man nearly hit his face off the handgun, and he seized it, passing it over to Slade without a second thought. The man took it, scanning the clearing around them, watching the places the bullets hit. Oliver huddled into the ground, body shaking.

“There’s only four of them,” Slade stated calmly. _Only four? Only?_ Oliver wanted to correct him, tell him that there should be no ‘only’ in that sentence, but another round of shots interrupted anything he had wanted to say. A bullet skimmed the car in front of his face, and Oliver pressed himself closer to Slade even as the man threw out a hand, pulling him into his side. The natural warmth did little to cut through the cold brought on by his wet clothes, but at least it was better than being faced with the empty air on all sides. Realistically, they only made a bigger target. However, some primal, foolish notion told Oliver this was safer. “I need you to watch for them.” His voice, though quiet, was close enough to Oliver’s ear that the words were perfectly clear. Although for a moment, Oliver thought he had to have misheard them. He looked at the man incredulously. “Neither of us will make it out of here unless you do what I say, understand?”

Did he? He looked out, flinching as more bullets punched through the car. “Yeah.” How was he supposed to watch? His answer came in a minute, when the bullets halted, and the crunch of a footsteps echoed through the suddenly too quiet air. Oliver went to turn, but before he could whip about, Slade’s hand stopped him, the man shaking his head and mouthing _slowly_. Oliver nodded his understanding, and carefully, the man let him go. There were a pair of legs visible in front of them, just a few yards away. The snow undoubtedly hid them, but they wouldn’t be covered for long. Slowly, Oliver turned around, looking for the others. He spotted them quickly, and tapped Slade, holding up one finger to indicate a shooter and gesturing to the location they each were. Who these men were, Oliver still had no idea. They couldn’t belong to the faceless government behind his abduction, or else Slade wouldn’t be shooting at them, right?

Slade looked forward, slowly shifting the handgun into position. Not wanting to cover his ears and risk being seen, Oliver set his jaw tightly, preparing for the shot. It was even louder than the last time, and almost immediately after Slade shot, the three attackers started up once again. The man pitched around quickly, firing off two quick shots. The soft thumps of bodies hitting the ground told them both that his aim had been perfect. The fourth, the final shooter had backed out of sight, still firing at the car. Slade moved forward, barely glancing at Oliver.

“Stay still.” He rolled out from underneath the car, coming to his feet in an instant, and shooting. The dull thud came scarcely a second later, the man’s face coming into view as he hit the ground. Oliver flinched back. The empty gray eyes seemed to stare into his. The shooter still had a hold of his weapon. Oliver scooted out from under the car, seeing Slade leaning against the vehicle, one hand supporting him, the other down by his side, still holding the gun. He looked unsteady, and it was the only moment Oliver knew he would get.

He followed his instincts, he bent, dragged the dead man’s gun out of his hand, and fired. Slade grunted, falling to his knees, and Oliver ran. He made it to the road that the driveway was attached to and didn’t stop. His lungs ached, his legs hurt, but he kept running, dropping the gun in favor of moving faster. He could see another road ahead and didn’t slow even as he stumbled into it, forcing a truck to swerve violently to avoid him.

It slowed, the driver obviously surprised, and Oliver threw up both hands, waving down the stranger. He was surprised when they stopped. The driver’s window rolled down, and Oliver dragged his exhausted body over to it, looking at the confused face that stared back at him. He couldn’t stop his quick, nervous look over his shoulder, expecting someone to appear at any moment.

“I need a ride, please, anywhere.” His words were ragged, torn out of airless lungs. The plea was obvious, and the man gave a rough shrug. He seemed to get over his initial surprise, seeing Oliver’s youth, the fact he was alone. The young posed nothing of a threat. His clothes were soaked from melted snow, the coat doing little to keep him warm now. Oliver supposed he could only be glad that blood hadn’t splattered onto him, or if it had, the clothes were too dark to notice.

“Get in,” he said, and Oliver stumbled about to the other side, pulling the door open and pulling himself into the cab. They were off again soon, but he couldn’t help looking back over his shoulder, uncertain as to who he was afraid might be following them. The pickup rumbled down the snowy road, and Oliver tucked his arms around himself, shivering. The driver was a tough looking man dressed in dirty clothes. He looked at Oliver curiously. “Not from around here, eh?” The boy’s shivering was still obvious, no matter how much Oliver tried to quell it. He didn’t know how to answer the question. Something about the man’s look, the cynical, shrewd expression told Oliver it would be best to hide his identity. He looked away, but his lack of answer didn’t seem to anger the driver. On the contrary, he gave a sneering smile. “Don’t worry, you don’t want to say anything, I won’t ask.” He pointed up at the sky. “Getting dark though, I can offer you a place to crash tonight.”

Should he accept? No, he shouldn’t. Oliver considered the choice, but realistically, he knew there wasn’t one. “Thanks.” His hands were still shaking, his heart racing in his chest. He couldn’t trust anyone now. It was a frightening realization. He had to be careful, avoid talking about himself. He couldn’t even trust the police or state officials. If the government was behind this, they’d have too much control over such people. Oliver huddled in on himself, conserving the little warmth he had. It seemed impossible to believe he had really gotten out. In a moment, he’d wake up in that nondescript room at the top of the stairs. Or maybe, he’d wake up to find he was already dead.

**OoOoO**

“Didn’t realize how shit this thing’s mileage is before this,” Hilton muttered as Quentin walked up to the car. He took the gas station sandwich Lance offered him just as the pump clicked, the digital numbers freezing. Lucas pulled it, replacing the gas cover. He walked around to the passenger’s seat as Quentin stepped into the driver’s, starting the car. The vehicle wasn’t the best choice for a cross-country adventure, especially in winter. Taking a cruiser hadn’t been an option, for multiple reasons, not the least of which was their need for as much anonymity as possible. It would probably have handled better than Hilton’s personal car.

They drove in silence for nearly an hour before Lucas’s phone rang. He answered quickly, barely glancing at the caller ID. “Hilton.” He paused, listening to whoever was on the other end and Quentin drummed his fingers against the wheel. “I understand. Yeah.” His tone was serious, and judging from the expression he wore, it wasn’t good news. Hilton craned his neck to check the GPS screen “Probably seven hours. Yes sir.” He hung up, shoving the phone back into his pocket. “Pike.” He said blandly. “Apparently, Merlyn just disappeared into the woodwork, no one can find him.”

“Yeah well, what were they expecting. None of us ever thought he could do something like this.” Lance muttered. Lucas shrugged. “What about the Queens, anything change with that?” He was curious to know if this unseen figure behind Oliver’s abduction would respond to Moira’s announcement.

“She’s in custody, witness protection, US marshals, you name it she’s got it. But they’re not letting her go. Her daughter’s just hidden away in witness protection, I guess they’re just hoping no one will think to target a kid.”

“Not like they’d done it before.” Lance remarked sarcastically. Hilton didn’t argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *monotone screaming*  
> Welcome to my life I.E. random chapter lengths and unorganized updates.


	11. Broken Bottles and Iron Rods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is probably one of the most triggering in the story, so don't read if you would like to avoid body gore, rape, and violent deaths. If anyone finds another, unmentioned trigger, please let me know.

The bullet _clinked_ against the porcelain as Slade dropped opened the teeth of the pliers. The blood-covered metal sat innocently still next to the other four. He set aside the pliers, picking up a roll of wrap to bandage a white gauze over the open hole. His hands tremored from the blood loss, but Slade ignored it. He had seen the truck that picked up Oliver from a distance, and he knew he had to go after his former charge. But he had things to clean up first.

Slade flushed the bullets with water, letting the blood spiral down the sink and picking up the bullets, stepping out of the bathroom. He took the heavy cleaver from the kitchen as he walked through. He collected all the weapons, shoving them into the car underneath the backseats in a custom compart. The bodies were harder.

The cabin had undergone some renovations the previous summer, and several bags of cement mix had been left in the barely accessible attic. He took several, setting them by the car and opening the trunk. One by one, he cut the bags open, pouring them directly into the back of the car. There were tools in the attic as well, though nothing electric.

Not ideal, but he could compromise and collected several. He took a tarp from out of the corner, going out to the porch and spreading it. One by one, he carried the bodies over, careful to not leave excess marks in the snow. As loud as the shots were, Slade knew they’d not draw attention. Hunting was popular here, and gunfire wasn’t rare enough to draw attention. Still, he couldn’t waste time. Kneeling next to the first body, Slade searched it, he found an identification card and phone. The latter he removed the battery from.

He picked up the pliers, wedging the man’s mouth open with one hand and methodically pinching each tooth with the metal and wrenching it out. Each one he set aside in a plastic bag. He was careful, not wanting the teeth to snap and pieces remain entrenched in the dead man’s skull. Once finished, he moved on to the next, repeating the process. Dismemberment was the next step.

Taking turns between a hacksaw and the cleaver, he mutilated the bodies, ignoring the squelch of skin and stench of death. It was easier to remove coats and push aside clothes rather than cut through. The bones didn’t all cut cleanly. Some of them shattered unevenly, leaving jagged edges. Dead people didn’t bleed, but blood didn’t simply evaporate, and it wasn’t long until Slade had a puddle of it on the tarp. He worked around it. He was loath to leave Oliver on his own, but this was important, the kid would have to survive for a few hours. Slade had no desire for the police to stumble onto the bodies and start a manhunt.

He never paused, working determinedly until no part of the bodies were whole. He stood, shaky and dizzy, and shook it away, trudging to the car and backing up to the porch. Armful by armful, he shoved the gruesome cargo into the trunk, slamming it shut. He rolled the tarp enough so that it wouldn’t spill, and pushed it into the back of the car, throwing the tools in as well. He changed by the car, stuffing his bloody, ripped clothes underneath the seat.

The deactivated phones, wallets, and bag of teeth Slade put in the duffle, moving it to the front seat. He locked up the cabin, smoothing out the snow around it, specifically where blood was still visible. Fortunately, the dark clouds above hinted at more snow. Satisfied with his work, Slade ducked into the driver’s seat, starting the engine and pulling away from the little building. He drove for less than half an hour before coming to his destination. Granted, he sped. When he reached the frozen lake, he didn’t stop, driving out onto the ice. He heard the ominous creaks underneath the car’s tires and rolled down all four windows. When he was out, far from the shore, Slade opened the door, taking the duffel and saw and leaving the car. He slid the duffel further away, chipping away at the ice with the saw. Alone, it would have taken him hours, but the exhaust of the car was quickly melting through a portion. He circled the car, making small holes through the ice until with a loud crack, the ice underneath the car gave way. Slade jumped back, throwing the saw forward. Black water sloshed in the open hole, the car vanishing immediately. There was no one close by. This lake, due to the nature of its marshy geography, wasn’t lived on, and at such a time like this, no one would be out yet.

He took his own phone out of his pocket, staring at it for a moment. He could come up with something, some story. Something to explain his actions. He turned the device over, removing the battery and tossing it into the lake. He turned, picking up the duffel walking back to the bank. He was royally fucked now. No vehicle, no contacts, dead colleagues. He didn’t know how long it’d take Waller to find out, the missing bodies would distract her, annoy her. Good. The bitch had called a hit on his charge without telling Slade. If she had told the agents to kill him too, or if that had just been a few of them jumping on the opportunity, he didn’t know. He didn’t care enough to find out.

The closest gas station was three miles away, and not exactly on his way. He could get there in less than an hour, hardwire a vehicle and maybe, if necessary, take care of the owner. It hadn’t started to snow yet, and with how little traffic there was, Slade knew he could follow the tracks of the truck that had taken Oliver. He started walking.

**OoOoO**

“How much longer?” Lucas was beginning to sound like Sara that time the Lance family had taken a trip to the beach for vacation. Quentin, instead of replying, just pointed to the GPS screen, causing his companion to sigh and lean forward. _Sixty-seven minutes_. It seemed impossibly long, and if the heavy clouds above meant anything, Lance knew the weather was about to take a turn for the worse. Hilton noticed them too. “Looks like it’s going to be nasty pretty soon.” He remarked.

“Just an hour now, let’s hope we beat it.” Quentin’s words were almost a prayer to some god he wasn’t sure could hear him. “How about you do a weapons check? Be pretty shit if we get shot because our own guns jammed.” Hilton grunted in agreement, taking Lance’s sidearm from the middle console and pulling out his own. He ran through the check, keeping the barrels aimed downward and away from both. He finished quickly, and went through it twice more, obsessing over the simple task, the only thing he had to do.

They’d left the interstate nearly two hours ago, driving through rural roads and back streets until the small towns turned into the occasional house that finally disappeared entirely. He was going nearly twenty over the speed limit, and once or twice, the car had slid dangerously, but Quentin couldn’t afford to slow down. They were too close now.

**OoOoO**

He didn’t want to talk, the man, however, didn’t seem to share that sentiment. He talked, constantly, and Oliver could barely listen to him. He kept glancing over his shoulder. Now that the excitement had settled, he felt worn out, and could barely sit upright, his eyes drooping. The truck ground to a halt, and Oliver sat bolt upright with a gasp. He expected to see someone in the road who stopped them, or even, the man next to him to be dead. It was neither. They were outside of a fairly large building, a hunting cabin, but fancier and more modern that the last two places.

The man was already out of the truck, and Oliver followed suit, opening the door and dropping to the snowy ground. His clothes were soaked, and he shivered, hurrying to follow the man inside where warmth was promised. Inside, the cabin was spacey and open, the first room they stepped into was a living space, decorated with various antlers and mounted heads from animals. The man had friends. Two of them, or at least that was all Oliver saw. One on the couch, the other just stepping through the doorway. Both looked surprised, and if he read the expression right, a little angry.

“Gavin, what the fuck?” The one on the couch spoke first to the man that Oliver had come in with. Nervous, and tense at the obvious hostility in the room. The door was still directly behind him. Worse came to worse, Oliver could get through. “Gavin” didn’t look so concerned. He waved away the other man’s accusing question.

“Just a kid, Brett. Lost and alone, I couldn’t just leave him out there, could I?” Oliver didn’t miss the sardonic tone. The other two relaxed visibly, seeming to understand something Oliver didn’t. Whatever relief he had felt earlier was gone now. He cleared his throat, trying to quell his nervousness and act natural.

“Thanks for picking me up.” Oliver said. “I um-I need to use a bathroom.” His voice sounded uncertain to his own ears, and Oliver cursed himself inwardly. Maybe he was paranoid after everything that happened, but this place felt even more dangerous than Slade. The man’s friends still looked upset over Oliver’s appearance, and ‘Gavin’ made a careless gesture down the hallway.

“Second door on the right. Leave your coat there too, you’re dripping all over the floor.” He said shortly, and Oliver followed the directions, skirting around the three of them, leaving as much space as he could as he slipped into the hallway. He could feel their eyes watching him, and none of them spoke while he was still in the room. When he closed the bathroom door, Oliver turned on the water for a few seconds before shutting it off, pressing close to the door to try to listen. The words were muffled, and they were speaking too softly for Oliver to hear most of the conversation.

“…can’t have some little shit runnin’ around this place.” He didn’t recognize that voice, but it sounded hurried and angry. He guessed it was the third man. It was louder than the other voices, and the reply it got was much softer.

“…gonna do?” That was Gavin. “…police? …cold he won’t be able to try anything.” Snow melted off his clothes, dripping steadily onto the bathroom floor. Methodically, Oliver stripped off his heavy coat, knowing the soaked material wouldn’t help him in any way.

“… hang around…” That was Brent. “Get fuckin’ rid of him.”

“You’re being shit dense,” Gavin replied, then he lowered his voice and Oliver was barely able to hear him. “…nearly twenty pounds…goddamn trooper…can’t move…bitch dies and cops are all over...” Oliver strained his hearing, holding his breath even.

“Not bad,” it was the third man again. “…really think kid’ll…?”

“Why not? He needs help more than we do.” Gavin replied, his words were distant, and Oliver heard the sizzle of a match being lit. A moment later, Brent’s words verified what he had already thought.

“Do that outside, won’tcha?” he muttered annoyed. Gavin didn’t reply, but there was no telltale creak of floorboards as he moved. “..kid maybe dead in there.” Oliver nearly jumped, realizing he had stayed there too long. He hung his coat over an empty hook and flushed water down the sink once again, using it to bring some margin of feeling back into his feelings. He didn’t hear what else they said doing that time. By the time he stepped out again, walking quietly and cautiously back into the living room, they’d gone silent. Gavin was seated in a chair now as well, smoking carelessly. Oliver crossed his arms, pausing awkwardly just inside the room. He didn’t think they knew what he had overheard.

“So, you got anything you wanna say?” Gavin started the conversation casually, but Oliver knew what they were trying to herd him into. He kept his arms crossed across his chest. “Looks like you got a few things you’re tryin’ to run from, ain’t always a good sign.” Oliver’s eyes slid around the living room. It was almost crammed with stuff, chairs, furniture, and random items. The hearth was cluttered with fire tools; a shovel, poker, even a few things he didn’t recognize.

“I got into some problems with my dad,” it was the first excuse that popped into Oliver’s head. Believable, not dangerous enough to draw suspicion, and not entirely a lie. “He didn’t want me around the house anymore.” He saw the look they exchanged and realized belatedly it probably sounded like a lie. He’d looked a little too desperate when he’d stumbled onto the main road, flagging down the pickup.

“Got any friends in the area?” Gavin pressed, Oliver immediately shook his head, not even having to lie for that one. Although maybe he should have, because he didn’t like the gleam in the man’s eyes at that. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Why?” Oliver took his turn to ask a question.

“Just asking some questions,” Gavin replied casually. “’Cause it seems like you don’t have a whole lot of options right now, do ya?” Oliver shrugged. He didn’t, no matter what way he looked at it. He had no idea if the police here were legitimate or just other government agents. Unless he could get to a phone, he didn’t have much of a choice. But even then, what if they were tracking calls to his mother? Could he reach his her even if they weren’t?

“I um, I have some friends out of state.” Oliver said. Gavin shrugged carelessly.

“Yeah, sure you might. But how you plan on getting there?” He asked around the cigarette, Oliver crossed his arms a little tighter, he sensed this conversation was about to take a turn he wouldn’t like. “Ya know, usually a kid who gets into a bit of an altercation with their pop don’t go running off into the road with blood splattered on ‘em.”

 _Shit_. He hadn’t seen any, and Oliver resisted the urge to look down now. His hands curled into tight fists, adrenaline picking up. He looked between the three of them, his mind racing to come up with anything that wouldn’t make this hole any deeper. “I’m not-”

“Relax kid,” the third man, the one he didn’t know the name off stepped around the back of the couch, and Oliver instinctively flinched as he dropped heavy hands on both his shoulders. He wasn’t given any room to try to move away. He hated what the stranger did with the three lettered word. Slade had said it too, but that had been a familiar, casual replacement. This was mocking and condescending, and the physical touch felt more like a threat than anything else. “We’re not going to drag answers out of you.” Oliver didn’t relax. “You need a place to stay? You can crash here for as long as you need, no more questions. We’ll just need a few favors.” _Favors_. Oliver sensed there was more to that word than he wanted to know.

“I don’t think I can do that,” he said. “I have family out of the state, I spoke to my mother earlier and-”

“Didn’t talk about that before, did you?” the man interrupted him. He released one of Oliver’s shoulders to feel his pockets. “Don’t have a phone either.” Oliver flinched fractionally again, this time managing to still himself. “Let me put it this way, you help us out, we don’t make a call into the police.” Oliver watched his suspiciously.

“What do you want?” he asked shortly. The man smiled down at him, it wasn’t a pleasant expression.

“Nothing big, just a couple packages. You run them to some people, you get to lie low here. What do you think?” No, that was exactly what Oliver thought. He could guess what the ‘packages’ were, and even if he didn’t the idea of going out was dangerous enough. He had no idea who was out there. Slade might still be alive, maybe there were more of those shooters. He didn’t want to think about it.

_‘Bitch dies.’_

The threat of the police was potentially a dangerous thing, but Oliver sensed they wouldn’t. His brain worked frantically to piece together the pieces of information he had heard. Someone died, they had mentioned the cops, and now, the three were all too wary to leave the house with their own packages. Maybe his next words were foolish, but it didn’t stop him from saying it.

“You’re really going to risk calling the police after your drugs killed someone?” Oliver’s words were quiet, the chill still hadn’t abandoned his bones, and he was still shaking from the altercation with the shooters. His words sent the room into silence, and Oliver saw their gazes turn ugly. The third man didn’t release Oliver, on the contrary, his grip got a little tighter, and Oliver stiffened instinctively, thinking back to every time he had fought Slade, and what his best choice might be. Gavin looked far less friendly than before, ripping the cigarette out from between his lips.

“You tryin to make trouble?” he asked, standing. Oliver didn’t back away, although he doubted he could, not with the other man right behind him. Now, he realized just how dumb he had been to speak up. He could have agreed, maybe snuck away when no one was looking, now he had just angered all of them.

“I’m sure the police would pretty interested to hear I could verify that.” He wasn’t going to give ground now. Gavin was approaching him, steps large and quick, it wasn’t long until he was directly in front of Oliver, crowding into his space.

“This some set up?” He snarled, he was too close for comfort, and Oliver felt stuck in between the two strangers. The acrid stench of smoke stuck in his nostrils, and he breathed shallowly, trying not to inhale more of the smoke than he had to. “Someone sent you, huh?” Gavin got even closer, staring into Oliver’s face. “Was it-” Oliver was done. Trapped, invaded, he threw a punch directly into the man’s face. Obviously, Gavin’s reflexes were shit compared to Slade’s, and his fist landed squarely, snapping Gavin’s head back. He slammed his heel into the other man’s foot and smashed his head back into the man’s face. His grip loosened with a vicious swear, and Oliver bolted for the door. Something slammed across the back of his skull and he fell to the ground, pain erupting in his head. A violent kick slammed into his ribs before he could recover, and Oliver instinctively curled into a tight circle, trying to protect himself.

“You were right, Brett, should have killed the dipshit when I found him.” Gavin’s face dripped blood, his nose broken at an unpleasant angle. Oliver rolled onto his back, swinging his leg up and out at the man. It didn’t land before a boot smashed into his stomach, leaving his gasping and out of air. The three men crowded around him. “Someone waiting for you out there?” Gavin demanded. Should he lie? Say no? Silently, Oliver called out for Slade help, begging that, in defiance of all reality, the man would hear him. He realized then there was no one behind him, and backed up quickly, stabilizing himself with his arms behind him.

Once he had some measure of distance between himself and the three, Oliver went to stand, despite how close they still were. He made a mistake. He was so focused on Gavin and the unnamed one, the only two he’d actually fought against, he forgot about Brett. As he pushed himself off the floor, he swung his fist out, only to feel an excruciating pain shoot through his thigh, he yelled aloud. He wanted to deny it, but the sheer agony was too much. The knife blade, thrust forward by Brett, had easily sliced through the skin, and as the man carelessly yanked it back, blood gushed out. Oliver caught himself against the wall, trying to stay standing, trying to put up some measure of a fight.

“Let me say that again,” Gavin snarled angrily. He stepped up in front of Oliver, evading his wild punches and slamming his own fist into the young man’s stomach again, then striking him viciously across the face, splitting his lip open. “Who sent you, huh? Was it Matthews? He out there somewhere? Tryin’ to make some point?” Oliver’s eyes flicked through the door, if only he could make it there. Gavin saw it and misinterpreted the gesture. “Go find ‘em.” He snapped to the other two. They left, and Oliver, believing it might be a type of opening, lunged towards the door. He didn’t know where the bottle came from, but it smashed over the back of his head, worsening the throbbing pain there. This time, Oliver did manage to catch himself, spinning around to face the man who strolled towards him.

Gavin kicked the door all the way shut after the other two, stalking towards Oliver with the empty beer bottle dangling from his fist. There was a vicious look in his eyes, underlined by some primal victory as he stared down at the younger man as Oliver backed away, closer inside and towards the fireplace.

“Bet you would have done anything, wouldn’t you? Lonely, scared little kid, they offer you some cash and you’re just right on board.” He lunged forward, and Oliver’s kick did little good before the bottle smashed across the side of his face. Blood hung heavy in his mouth and Oliver fell flat on his back, struggling to right himself. This time, Gavin moved faster than he did, kicking him flat and kneeling to strike him twice more times with the bottle. Instinctively, Oliver moved his hands in the way, trying to stop the blows from hitting his face. A heavy weight dropped onto him as Gavin sat down, knee going straight into the middle of his chest. Breathing was suddenly impossible, and Oliver shoved at him, trying to break free.

Gavin slammed the bottle across his abdomen, and this time, the glass shattered. He brandished the jagged edge threateningly under Oliver’s chin, close to his throat. “I’ve told Matthews before that I won’t take any more shit,” he snarled, his breath, laced with the heavy scent of cigarette smoke, blew into Oliver’s face, were it not for the bottle, he would have twisted away. “So I’m gonna kill you, but I’m gonna do it slow, because you caused me a lot of pain, didn’t ya?” he used his free hand to touch his nose gingerly. “But why don’t we have a little _fun_ first?” he said it nastily, and Oliver renewed his struggles, only stopping when the broken glass sliced through his skin, sharp as a razor. Gasping, Oliver froze, his chest rising and falling frantically.

“I’m not with him!” He half shouted the words, panic tinging his voice. Gavin hit him across the face, shifting himself to sit squarely on Oliver’s hips, pinning one of his hands beneath his knees. He knew where this was going, and Oliver wasn’t about to give up. He’d have to lower the bottle, right? He felt a hand yank at his jeans unceremoniously, and before he could react, Gavin was roughly turning him over, weight still on top of him, the sharp edge of the bottle brushing threateningly across his neck. Unable to see the man, Oliver wasn’t sure how closely he was watching him. He wanted to fight back, but he knew it might just kill him. Laying there, shuddering at the invasion of his space, Oliver felt the jeans ripped lower. He threw his hand back, trying to grab ahold of the material, and Gavin slashed his palm with the bottle.

Oliver snatched the hand away, breathing ragged and shallow. He moved too quickly, and his hand slammed into the bricks of the hearth. Blood slickened the floor under his hand, and Oliver just tried to breathe. It was almost impossible. The heat of the fire felt burning and oppressive against his bare skin, and he heard the metallic clink of a belt buckle. He wasn’t prepared for the tearing agony that came next as the man shoved into him. Oliver choked on his own air, ignoring the threat of the broken bottle and fighting violently, flinging his arms behind him to land whatever he could. He was unable to swing his legs up, as most of Gavin’s weight was on them now, but he still tried. A hand gripped the back of Oliver’s head, fisting in his hair, and before he could retaliate, his skull was smashed against the bricks.

The resulting dizziness was disorienting. His vision went white, and Oliver felt as though his limbs were suddenly made from lead. He was still acutely aware of Gavin on top of him, of the man’s movements into him, of the burning pain, but all he could hear was a pounding in his ears, all he could see was blurry shapes. He couldn’t force his limbs to move and stay there, somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, body jerked uncontrollably with every thrust.

The movements were erratic, and Oliver, still dizzy, felt his hand creep over something cool and hard and round. His fingers tightened on it, and with very little coordination, he swung it up and back, twisting his body and causing lightning flashes of pain up through his body. He felt the fire poker connect, and Gavin fell off him. Oliver struggled away, barley able to stand straight. His vision was clearer, and as the man went to stand, snarling some furious insult at him, Oliver swung the poker again, feeling ribs give way under the metal rod. He forgot his own pain, he forgot the state of his clothes, he forgot everything except that one task; bringing the fire poker down onto Gavin over and over again until the man collapsed to the floor, and not stopping even then. Not stopping until the ache in his arms, and the nausea in his stomach became to much and Oliver turned and vomited onto the floor. When he straightened shakily, Gavin was barely moving, his hand twitching towards the broken bottle. His skull was dented inward, his face smashed to an unrecognizable degree, jaw askew from the rest of his face. His entire body was bloody, several bones obviously broken, the jagged edge of a one protruding from his forearm. The sight of that alone caused Oliver to vomit again. With shaking fingers he righted his clothes, the fire poker dropping down to the carpet. He limped forward, body shuddering, gasping, and made it to the kitchen before the door opened violently.

“Didn’t see any sign of-” Brett’s words were cut off as he stared at Gavin slack-jawed. He turned angry eyes to Oliver. “Why you-” He lunged forward, and Oliver barely managed to yank a knife out of the block. Brett didn’t see the gesture, his arms lifting to bring his own blade down, and Oliver stabbed him in the stomach. The man shrieked, and before he could recover, Oliver whipped the blade up to slash it through his throat. He gurgled, spitting blood onto Oliver’s face before he dropped.

He could barely drag himself to step over the body, over the blood that slowly pooled out around it. He stepped up to the door, and almost straight into the third man. Oliver moved back, intending to get away. He tried to ignore the agonizing pain in all his body. The third man didn’t waste time with surprise, he snarled something angrily and lurched toward Oliver. The young man fled, but the man stooped, picking up the discarded fire poker, and in two strides, he was close enough to crack it across Oliver’s shoulder, then into the knife wound on his thigh, buckling his legs.

The man swung the iron rod up again, and Oliver barely had time to throw his arms up, protecting his head, before the blow struck his body. He couldn’t defend himself against the sudden barrage, and pain erupted at every glance of the weapon. He tried moving away, but he ran into the wall, and could go no further. He couldn’t fight back, and every glancing blow ached. The man didn’t deliver them with the same fury Oliver had to Gavin, but he knew he wasn’t getting out. Suddenly, a gun barked, and the blows stopped. Oliver lifted his face, staring at his attacker as the man slowly dropped to the floor, a hole blown through his forehead. Slade stood in the doorway, gun still raised.


End file.
